Psionverse 1: Knightfall Knightrise
by Esther-Channah
Summary: ON HIATUS! AU version of Knightfall. Psion Force steps up to the plate after Bane hurts Batman. Chapter 15: Matters come to a head over Azrael's actions last chapter. This chapter rated AAA for Angst, Aww, and Aaargh!
1. Prolog: Thoughts Under a Cornice at 2AM

_Please note: this story is on indefinite hiatus. When I first started writing fanfiction, I had in mind to introduce a bunch of OCs who had been kicking around in my head for well over a decade. The problem is that when I started writing, I didn't have a concrete plan beyond 'retell Knightfall the way it would have gone if Psion Force had been there'. I had a few key scenes I wanted to work in. I knew how I wanted the final chapter to go. I did not, however, sit down and really figure out how to pull it all off. Somewhere along the line, I ran out of steam. And then, some of the scenes that I'd envisioned for this fic began to pop up in subsequent stories. A conversation between Bron and Callie got tweaked and turned up in Giri--only it was between Bruce and Alfred. Some of Tabitha's lines started coming out of Dick Grayson's mouth. I also started rereading this and realized that as I got more into ficcing, my writing style changed. I'm not going to say 'matured' because that's subjective. But I do know that if I tried picking up now, later chapters would probably have a markedly different tone. I don't honestly know if I'll ever come back to update this fic, although anything's possible. Also, if you're a new reader, the last chapter isn't an evil cliffhanger it's more... well, like The Empire Strikes Back--it ends at a natural spot but you know that there has to be more. It's just that in this case... there isn't._

**Psionverse 1: Knightfall-Knightrise**

Disclaimer: I own Psion Force. DC owns Batman, Oracle, The Stable, Nightwing, Alfred, James Gordon, Gotham City (And we think Bruce is loaded!) and all other characters. I'm using them without permission, but I'm not making a cent. So there!

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later.

A/N: We are introduced to Oracle's fellow computer-experts in Birds of Prey 63.

A/N: Pirkei Avot, or "Ethics of the Fathers" is a religious text, one of the tractates of the Oral Law. On its simplest level, it's a collection of wise sayings from some of the greatest Rabbis who ever lived.

**Prologue—Thoughts Under a Cornice at Two A.M.**

"_What's an average kid like me doing way up here_?" I thought. That's the title of a book I loved when I was a few years younger. It takes on a whole new meaning when you're sitting on-no, correction, under the roof of an eight-story apartment building. Of course, that kind of setting really does call the whole "average kid" idea into question, now, doesn't it?

Funny, I had this idea that Manhattan was all skyscrapers and high-rises. Sure, there are a lot of them, but that's not all there are. A few times, I've peeked into Bronwen's art books. She's into that. She'd love this. Cornices on the roof, sculptures like something out of Grimm. I'll call them gargoyles, because it seems to me that a lot of these old buildings are supposed to be festooned with them. But maybe they're dragons, or griffons, or goblins. I wouldn't know. Anyway, just under the cornice of the south face of the southwest corner of this building is a ledge. Two of these mythical monster- things are sitting on it. And me. I'm the one in the middle, hoping my costume blends in. It should. The cloak is gray—that sort of bluish gray that granite takes on at dusk. I used to wear a brown one, but things change. Sometimes, they change slowly-like the way paint fades; sometimes they change in the time it takes to hear a news report. Brown shows more dust, anyway.

I have a few names. The one I go by outside of Midtown is Tabitha Aaronson. In Midtown, at least around Mooney Avenue where most of the kosher groceries and restaurants are, I'm Golda. That's my Hebrew name. Technically, Golda is a Yiddish name. It would be Zahava if it were Hebrew. I like that better. Evidently Mom didn't. To a select few, all of them computer-savvy, I call myself Yellow. I'm not really a hacker, not mainly, but I've managed to come up with some protective measures to keep you from getting caught if you do manage to break in to Norad. I started calling myself "Yellow," for a couple of reasons. I've made friends online with similar talents. In point of fact, calling that bunch 'computer-savvy' is like describing a Stradivarius as 'having a nice sound to it.' We're a core group of six. Four of the others are calling themselves Red, Blue, Pink and Green. The other one uses a halo as a signature and goes under Angel. Having a name that was practically a color already made it easy for me to choose that as a handle. "Yellow" just seemed to fit in with that bunch better than "Gold." We've stopped emailing each other recently; it was getting too risky if my security safeguards should ever fail. Now we stay in touch mainly by voder. Clean-room protocols all the way. Of course, none of that explains the cloak and cornice ledge. Maybe it would help if I mentioned that I'm able to pass through solid objects, wear Kevlar six nights out of seven and call myself Umbra when I do?

Actually, that would only explain the cloak. Fair enough. I'm sitting on a ledge that gives me a good view of a one-bedroom apartment next door. I'm waiting for the light to go on, telling me that the occupant is home. He hasn't been for about three days. Of course that means _I_ haven't been home either. Gotham to Manhattan is a little long to commute. That's really too bad because New York is unfamiliar territory and unfamiliar territory makes me nervous. I got in by Greyhound, because it cost the least, left the soonest, and gave me plenty of time to look at city maps and pocket guides. They help, kind of like reading books on winning chess strategies. In other words they're interesting, but no substitute for playing.

I know. I'm babbling. When I'm nervous, I do that. Let's see, where was I? Right, I'm sitting on a ledge in Manhattan, snuggling up to a stone monster, which may or may not be a gargoyle. I'd say, 'so far so good', but that actually sounds kind of sad, doesn't it? Whatever. That's sort of in keeping with why I'm in a strange city, keeping strange company. It's business, not pleasure, and definitely not happy business.

Green told me—hold on, rewind a second and let me say over—_Oracle_ told me that this is where Dick Grayson, formerly Robin, formerly leader of the Titans, currently Nightwing is living.

That was, well, maybe not too too surprising—Green being Oracle, I mean. I'd had dealings with her in both capacities-it just took me a while to connect the dots. I'm lying. It was something stupid. See, like Ben Zoma says in _Pirkei Avot_, one who is wise is one who learns from all people. It makes sense. Call it the lion and the mouse revisited. You never know when you might need help, and often the one assisting isn't the first obvious choice. _Any_way, I may just be the expert in electronic and anti-hacking safeguards, but there was this one time that I came up against something I hadn't seen before. Hey, it happens. Fortunately, or so I thought, it happened to me in my capacity as Umbra. Over the last little while or so, I'd been contacted by someone styling herself Oracle. (I know now that it's 'herself'; at the time, I didn't.) She'd volunteer little bits of information, things like who just got out of Blackgate early, whether any of Penguin's dummy corporations had made any unusual purchases, tiny pebbles in the river of crime, spreading their influence like ripples.

Yeah, I know, that sounded like I read too much. Mea culpa. Anyway, I figured it wouldn't hurt to ask if this Oracle person had any insights. Given a few hours, maybe I could have cracked it on my own, but this character seemed to know everything else. Okay, I admit it. I was being lazy. Sue me. Oracle told me she didn't have what I was looking for handy, but if I could give her some time she'd get back to me.

That night, I got a communication from Green, asking me whether I, Yellow, knew the answer to the question which I, Umbra, had asked Oracle earlier. That sort of thing kind of makes a girl think. I mean, sure, Oracle could have asked Green, who turned around and asked me, but I didn't think so. Call it instinct, call it an ear for speech patterns, call it me picking up telepathy through osmosis, but in this business, sometimes you have to play your hunches. So I played mine, set out to trace the owner of the P.O. box I'd shipped Green's software to, and sat back to wait for the results. It took a while longer than usual, but eventually they came in. When they did, I did a double-take.

All right, just for the record, I know that a secret identity is supposed to be pretty far removed personality-wise from the, shall we say, 'public'? Fine, let's call it a public identity. There's plenty of precedent for this: Percy and the Scarlet Pimpernel. Don Diego and Zorro. Henry, the mild-mannered janitor and Hong Kong Fooey. The list goes on. So, knowing this, when I find out that someone has a heretofore-unsuspected side to him or her, I don't know why it should surprise me. But this did. I wondered whether the police commissioner knew what his daughter was doing. Not my lookout. I thought things over, and then reached for the phone book. Sure enough, there was a listing for Barbara Gordon.

She picked up on the second ring. "Hey, Oracle! This is Yellow," I chirped. "We need to talk."

* * *

That was last year. Four nights ago, we were listening to _Misty's Moonlight Sonata_ on the radio. That's the local classical music show. They were doing a piece on talent in Gotham, and they'd taped Maybelle's renditions of three Chopin etudes. Bran and Jill had come for supper and stayed for the debut. The plan was to listen until Maybelle's piece came on or until the program ended, whatever came first, then hit the streets and take down a few more punks. Ten minutes into Misty, WGKN interrupted their program for a late-breaking news story.

"This is Ron Llewellyn live in Robinson Square, where a man in a costume, styling himself Bane, has just hurled the Batman from..." we listened, shocked. I think we were waiting for someone to shout 'April Fool'. This wasn't happening.

"I need to get there," Callie said suddenly. We all looked at her. "I'm a doctor, now. I can help. But I need to know where he'll be taken." She looked at me. "Can you find out?"

I nodded, and motioned for her to follow me up to my room. As she got up, the others started moving, too. "Suit up, gang," Bran said. "Gotham's going to go nuts tonight. Let's get cracking. Cal," he hesitated. "Sophie?"

My oldest sister, Sophia, a.k.a. Spectrum, has been on reserve status for more than seven years. She couldn't get a baby-sitter, or she would have been here tonight. With Batman apparently out of action, and most of Arkham's worst still at large, I agreed with Brandon. We were going to need all the help we could get. Callie thought so too. "Bronwen, call her. Tell her she's on standby until further notice. Tabitha," she turned to me, "lead on."

I turned on my computer. As called up my e-mail, Callie dashed to her room and came back with her costume. She started changing behind me. I got through to Oracle.

"This is not a good time," said the synthetic voice on the other end.

"Agreed," I said quickly. Before she could cut me off, I made our offer as clearly and concisely as I knew how: "We know how to get to Wayne Manor and my sister is a doctor." If that made any sense to her, then she would know exactly why I was calling. And, sure enough...

"Put her on and I'll patch this with Alfred!" Green said in her own voice. (Yes, I still think of her as 'Green.' It's how we met, it's who she was even before she was Oracle.)

I got up. Cal sat down in my seat. She looked at me. "What do I ..."?

"Just talk." I grinned. To Callie, a computer is a glorified typewriter that saves her a fortune on liquid paper and makes really good graphs and charts. For anything else, she asks me.

I got my costume out from the closet and remembered I had my arm-guards recharging in the basement. I headed downstairs to get them. Halfway down, something hit me. Nightwing. Someone had to tell him. And from what I'd seen, it didn't look like anyone would. I thought back to the last few months. Batman hasn't been on top of his form for a long time. I don't know what's responsible. Burnout? Mid-life crisis? Too many hours playing Tetris? Scratch that last one, it could only happen in an alternate reality. I'd offered to help him a few times. He'd practically bitten my head off. It kind of reminded me of Callie as a teenager. Hey, if you juggle being a student, de facto single mother, leader of a team of vigilantes, plus all the normal stresses of being sixteen, well, sooner or later you start to drop a few balls-or lose a few marbles. So yeah, I was worried. Batman's path and mine don't cross very often-maybe that's why we usually get along, but somehow I felt that if he was under that much pressure and not calling for help, now that something worse had happened, he was going to try to keep it hidden as long as he could.

That was none of my darned business, I know. Sure, he was being stupid, but that was his lookout. Except... Except, right now, we didn't know how badly he was hurt. Bane had just thrown him off the roof of the Bob Kane Art Museum, and he'd hit the pavement hard. News reporter Ron Llewellyn hadn't been able to get close enough to give an eyewitness report, but had presumed Batman's condition "critical." Well, duh.

Nightwing hasn't been in Gotham much, the last two years. He'd helped Naiad and me take down about fifteen thugs six months ago (no, we're not crazy enough to go two against fifteen-whenwe spotted them, they were only six, but they turned the corner and things got ugly). I'd asked him at the time how Batman was. That was probably a mistake. Nightwing had been smiling, up to that point. He just told us that they hadn't talked lately. Now, he didn't say 'end of discussion' in words, but the temperature dipped about ten degrees, and I didn't think it was El Nino.

Cal went through a period when she was younger (I think it's called 'adolescence'), when she rubbed everyone the wrong way. It pushed Bran into leaving home at fifteen and globetrotting for about four years. That's when he picked up the krav-maga, among other things. It made me want to run away from home about a million times—or find my "real" mother. But I think we knew, even back then, that, when the chips were down, if we were needed, we'd be there in a New York minute. And, if Batman... wasn't going to be okay, Nightwing had to be told. (Yes, I know he's Dick Grayson. Once you know who Batman is, the rest sort of clicks into place.) It wasn't a question of whether he would forgive me for sitting on this sort of info. If anything ever happened to Callie, or any of my siblings, after we'd had a major falling out, I knew I'd never forgive _myself_ if we didn't get the chance to make it up. And, in the absence of telepathy, without a complete understanding of how Nightwing thought, and whether his reaction would be the same as mine, I was going to use the data at hand and assume that he would want to know.

I went back into my room. The window was open and Silver Dragon was gone. I turned back to the basement to get my arm-guards. Downstairs, the rest would be changing into costume and checking their gear. For a moment I hesitated. Gotham was going be Arkham tonight: a total madhouse. I wasn't doing the team any favors by ducking out on them. Callie was going to kill me. But for now, she would assume that I was with Pathwarden and the rest of the team. He would think I was with her. This was the best chance I was going to have, if I was going to go through with this stupidity. I phased the rest of the way into the training complex in the basement, bypassing the changing rooms. I grabbed my gear, and threw an eight-pack of chewy granola bars into a knapsack. The costume followed.

When I called Oracle from the bus terminal, she wasn't exactly thrilled with my idea. She didn't try to talk me out of it, though. And she did give me Nightwing's last known address. I was in Manhattan three hours later. I found a youth hostel in the area, and checked in. If Dick doesn't show up by sunrise, I'll head back there and catch a few hours sleep. I hope Callie won't be too mad.

Hold it, what's going on down there? Back in a minute!


	2. Chapter 1: Blind Trust

Disclaimer: I own Psion Force. Ask before you touch. Also Newscaster Ron Llewellyn, but him you can use without asking. DC owns all other characters. I'm using them without permission.

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later.

A/N: I always saw Tim as closer to fourteen for this story arc. Unfortunately, since DC recently allowed him to celebrate his sixteenth birthday, and we know that he is thirteen when he first approaches Dick in _Lonely Place of Dying_, that means that virtually everything including but not limited to: time he spends learning from Bruce but not allowed in costume, Robin miniseries 1 (a number of months in France, etc.), _Knightfall_ (roughly 1 year?), _Cataclysm/NML_ (1 year storyline), the period between Gotham's restoration and BWM/F (one year) and _BWM/F_ (6 months for the "Fugitive" piece) take place in less than three years. The math doesn't really add up...

A/N: **_Bold italics_** denote telepathic communication.

**Blind Trust**

_Four nights earlier..._

Silver Dragon was flying. She propelled herself telekinetically through the air, over the rooftops but under the radar, eyes on the horizon, hands clamped firmly around the sturdy quarterstaff extended horizontally before her. Her concentration, however, was split between her environment and the voice coming over her comlink.

"Ever worked with a telepath before, Robin?" She asked.

It was a boy's voice in her ear, young, scared, but with an all-too-familiar determination. "Not really."

"Does it make you nervous?"

The voice turned sheepish. "Kinda."

Callie let a smile spill over into her voice. "Completely understandable. If we ever have the time, I'll show you a few defensive techniques. For now, though," she said, her voice turning serious, "it's good that you don't know them. Makes what I need to do a lot easier." She was going to have to teleport, she realized with a sinking feeling. There was no other way that she could get to the ambulance that Alfred was driving in time, and she couldn't ask them to wait. She explained this to the boy on the other end of her link, ending with "I'm going to need you to guide me in."

"How?"

She swallowed. "You're really not going to like my answer."

"_How_?"

"I'm going to need to link with you telepathically, and lock onto your mind."

There was a long pause. "What do you want me to do?"

"Well," she began, "you can start out knowing that I'm extending doctor-patient confidentiality to anything that I might pick up from your thoughts." She sighed. "If teleporting in blind wasn't so dangerous, I'd try, believe me."

The voice on the other end hardened in resolve. "Tell me."

_You made the right choice when you picked him, Mr. Wayne_, she thought. "Here's where a low profile becomes an asset," she said. "I'm willing to lay odds that, apart from my team-mates, people don't really think about me that often." (_How pathetic are you sounding, right now, Callantha_?) What I want you to do is concentrate on my name."

"That's it?" Robin sounded relieved.

She swerved to avoid an aircraft beacon light, which jutted from the top of an office tower. "That's it. Just think the name: Silver Dragon." In a sepulchral tone, she continued, "but, call me 'Silly' and the consequences will be dire."

There was a startled laugh on the other end before the link cut out. She sent out a probing thought. She shouldn't have put that idea into his head, she thought to herself, as she homed in on **_Silly... no, I mean... Silver Dragon. Silver Dragon. Silly Dragon..._**

**_Trix are for kids_** she projected.

**_Sorry..._**

**_Don't be. My fault for mentioning. First things first. How fast are you going?_**

**_About forty miles per hour_**

Silver Dragon was suddenly grateful for her high school math. _If an ambulance is traveling southward at a speed of forty miles per hour, at what point will the costumed vigilante intercept, assuming she levitates at a rate of fifteen miles per hour and teleports up to 60 feet per second but must rest at least 27 seconds after the first jump and 14 seconds longer for each subsequent jump than for the one previous..._ she worked the calculations quickly in her mind **_Okay, Tim. I'm going to need your eyes_**. (_And I didn't mean to call you 'Tim' just now. It slipped out_.)

**_My eyes?_**

A picture drifted from his mind to hers. **_That's sick. Don't watch so many horror movies, if that's the kind of imagery you come away with. What I meant was, I need to see where I'm teleporting, so I need to look through your eyes_**

**_Oh_**

Sil waited a moment. **_Tim_**

**_Hhhmmm_**

**_Where are you? _**

**_Ellsworth. Just past Sprang_**

**_No, I mean where are you in the ambulance? _**

_**Oh! Passenger side of the cab **_

_**And you're facing forward? **_

_**Uh-huh **_

_Maybe he wasn't such a good choice, Mr. Wayne_. **_And you want me to teleport directly into the path of the vehicle? _**

****

_**I'm looking through your eyes, Tim. I see what you see. What you see right now is what's in front of the windshield. There has to be a better place I can land than right between your headlights **_

_**Oh. Maybe I should go behind and let you see the patient area **_

Silver Dragon caught his embarrassment. **_Good idea._** _Go easy on him,_ she told herself_. He's young, he's scared, and he's trying. It wasn't so long ago YOU would have made a similar mistake._

She had been able to reduce her travel time considerably. When Umbra had made the acquaintance of Oracle and the other computer experts, she reflected, her younger sister had gained access to technology that Silver Dragon had not dreamed possible. For one thing, she had presented her older sister with a dozen "teleportation relay discs". She was able to interface telepathically with the discs, which had a range of roughly a half-mile. Spaced at intervals within the downtown core, they enabled her to travel from one point to another in the blink of an eye—and with considerably less nausea. The problem was that she could not use them if she wanted to travel anywhere other than from one disc to the next. Another drawback was that in making sure that there was a disc at or near the most likely trouble spots in the city, she had not been able to place one in the vicinity of home base (also known as 18 Kressy Place, just east of Mooney). It had taken her the better part of ten minutes to fly to the nearest relay point at the Moldoff building, near City Hall. From there, it was easy to use the system to get to the Novick Centre, three minutes from Robinson Square.

**_Are you at Liss, yet? _**

**_We will be in about thirty seconds _**

_**Is there a sink in the vehicle? **_

_**Yes **_

_**Face it and DON'T MOVE **_

_**Okayyy. Liss **_

**_Wish me success_** (_As I hurl myself off of a townhouse, while teleporting into a small, fast, moving target, fighting every instinct telling me to levitate the instant I don't have something solid under my feet. Tim, don't you dare look away or this is going to get very, very messy..._). Closing her eyes, she murmured a fast, fervent prayer, set her mind to the scene before Robin's eyes, and leapt.

* * *

Tim Drake had experienced more excitement in the two months since he had returned from Europe, than in his thirteen years up to that point. And those thirteen years included such events as meeting Koriand'r, a jaunt to Haley's circus to find Nightwing, fighting Two-Face and telling off Batman! Becoming Robin had been like a dream come true, one that was fast becoming a nightmare. At first glance, the woman, hunched dry-heaving over the sink, seemed to offer little to alleviate it. But then, she splashed her face with cold water, pulled off her helmet, and smiled. "Would you have a spare white coat?" she asked, standing her staff in a corner with one hand, and jerking off the forest-green mask she wore beneath the helmet with the other. Alfred was already handing one to her. "Thank-you," she said as she accepted it. Quickly, she unfastened her cape, and draped it over the staff. She unbelted her tunic and pulled off her beige tabard, with its stylized silver dragon rampant. She retied the belt around the waist of the loose-fitting knee-length green tunic she wore over matching leggings and low beige boots. This done, she slipped on the coat with the EMT badge pinned above the pocket.

Robin cleared his throat. "Ummm... Silver Dragon?"

"I'm out of costume, Robin. My name is Callie. Thanks for the assist, by the way."

"You're welcome. But why are you bothering with the coat? I mean, you're not going out with the bedboard, are you?"

Callie shook her head. The ambulance stopped. "We're there, I imagine," she said as she heard the driver-side door slam shut. "I've seen Robinson Square before, there's no point in seeing it again. I just work better when I'm dressed for the job in question."

The rear door opened and a blond man about her own age, wearing an EMT uniform and a baseball-type cap with the Gotham Emergency Medical Services logo looked in. "Bedboard?" he mouthed. Tim practically heaved the frame at him.

"Quickly, Jean-Paul," they heard Alfred call from outside. The man, whose name, apparently, was 'Jean-Paul' shifted his grip on the padded board and hurried off, leaving one of the rear double doors open.

"Wouldn't surgical scrubs be better?" Tim whispered.

Callie looked at him quizzically. "Would you be offended if I told you that I'd rather not get fully changed in front of you?"

Robin blushed. How old was this kid? Twelve? _And how old and grey were you your first year in costume?_ She sighed inwardly. _When I was twelve, I was older_, she thought. She found a surgical cap on one of the counters and set about tucking her waist-length dark hair into it. Next, she tied on a surgical mask. "Help me with the gloves?" she asked as she pulled off her beige gauntlets, and, after a second's deliberation, removed her arm-guards as well.

"Sure," he said sounding relieved. He picked up one of the gloves by the wrist. "Uh... you did call me 'Tim' before, right?"

"Yes. That was unintentional. What I said about doctor-patient privilege still applies."

He smiled faintly. "That's cool."

The boy was glancing nervously at the door. Callie waited until he met her eyes. "I'm scared, too," she admitted. Voices drifted through the open door of the ambulance. The police officer was suggesting an escort to the hospital. Alfred was gently refusing her. "Who's out there?" she asked. "Montoya?"

Tim's eyes widened. "You know her voice? Or were you just, um..."

"In her mind? No. Review a moment. How did I get into your mind? What did you do?"

"I thought your name."

"More important than that. You let me in. If you had fought me, if you had resisted my initial probe in any way, I wouldn't have been able to force my way in. The only way that I can get inside someone's head without physically touching them first, is if the person is willing. By the way," she added, "that showed an unusual amount of courage."

"Thanks."

"There aren't that many women on the force," Callie explained. "She's one of the most competent. Officers, not just women. That crowd out there seems more under control than I would expect, all things considered. Call it an educated guess."

Alfred and Jean-Paul (who was this guy anyway?) returned carrying Batman between them on the bedboard. Callie waited for them to transfer him to the medical bed, for the eerily intense young man to move forward into the drivers seat, and for the back doors to close before moving forward. "_Ribono Shel Olam_," she gasped as Alfred cut the costume away. "One man did this?"

A low moan from the stretcher cut off any reply that might have been forthcoming.

Alfred prepared an IV drip, and began hooking the prone figure up to various machines. He didn't appear to need her help. He stuck the IV needle into Batman's arm, which caused the big man's hand to clench reflexively.

"Professional distance be hung, drawn and quartered," Callie muttered. The gloves were sterile, she reminded herself, as she envisioned a portion of her telekinetic power taking on the size and shape of her hand. As long as she wore them, her physical hands should not touch anything but the medical instruments. Lightly, she brought the force to rest on Batman's shoulder. "I" she said, then swallowed and began again. "I don't know if you can hear me, or if you know what's going on," she paused for a moment, then continued keeping her voice low and exuding a calm she did _not _feel, "but just in case you can hear, I want you to know that you're among friends." She looked at Alfred, in case there was something he needed her to do. He beckoned to her to continue. "Alfred and Tim are back here with me, and Jean-Paul is driving the ambulance. And, I don't know if you remember me but I'm Callie. Or Silver Dragon."

His agitation seemed to lessen marginally. Or was that wishful thinking? It wasn't like he had any reason to trust her medical expertise, so far. She drew a deep breath. "I can't pretend to know what you're feeling right now, but if I were in your place, I know I'd be terrified. That doesn't mean you have to be," she added quickly, "but if you are, it's fine. I just want you to know, we're going to do everything we can to pull you through this." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Alfred measuring the dosage of an anesthetic. "Now, I have to tell you that, no matter how much pain you're in right now, once we start swabbing antiseptic on those open wounds, they're only going to feel worse. It would probably be better if you slept through it. But just in case some part of you is still aware of what's going on, I'm going to talk as we work, and I'll try to keep you up to speed on what we're doing." Not to mention, she reflected, that sometimes saying things out loud, helped to keep her focused. She lifted her telekinetic "hand" from his shoulder, slipped it into his, and gave it a light squeeze. "There is one drawback, of which I should make you aware," she said straight-faced. "Sometimes, when I'm extremely tense, I make some truly... awful... jokes. And since the last thing I want to do right now is add to your pain, if you could let me know when I go too far, I'll try to tone it down. Okay?" she asked, as Alfred placed the breathing mask over his nose and mouth.

It was ludicrous to expect a response. The fact that he was still breathing at all was clear confirmation that miracles still happened. But, impossibly, she saw his hand contract and felt a brief pressure on her telekinetic field as he did. It wasn't wishful thinking. Alfred and Tim had seen it as well. Callie let out a long breath, and smiled for the first time since Alfred and Jean-Paul had brought him inside. "Okayyy."


	3. Chapter 2: Sand in the Oyster

Disclaimer: The usual. DC owns anyone you recognize from the comics. So far, the ones I own include Psion Force, "Julliard," "Bluto," and a one-dimensional newscaster who has currently shown up more in these disclaimers than he has in the story. He probably won't turn up again. On the other hand, sometimes characters take on lives of their own so no promises.

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later.

A/N: To view the capoeira moves mentioned in this chapter please, let me put in a plug for It's proved a great reference.

A/N: Tabitha's mention of "Victor" and "Hugo" is meant to be a reference to two of the three gargoyles in Disney's Hunchback of Notre Dame. I don't mean to infringe on Disney's copyright, either.

A/N: To Will44 on the DC message boards, thanks again for telling me where Dick was during the first arc of Knightfall. (Yep, I'm Dragonbat.)

**Sand in the Oyster**

Without hats, who can tell the good guys? Sometimes, I guess we all hang labels on the people we whale on each night, in order to convince ourselves that we're better. Mooks. Scum. Riffraff. Clowns. Punks. Losers. They beat up people. We beat up people. They enjoy it. I have to admit, I get—and give—a few kicks myself. Later on, I start rationalizing, and tell myself that the streets are a little bit safer, and maybe fewer of the riffraff-cum-punks will be out there tomorrow. With the courts backlogged as they are, that's a fair assumption--it usually takes at least three days for a bail hearing. Of course, sometimes the labels fit. Take the drunken loser hassling the teenager with the NYU backpack and the Julliard sweatshirt, for example. He's built like that bully in Popeye... what was that name... Bruto? No, _Bluto_. Julliard looks about eighteen, maybe nineteen—my age, more nervous than angry but trying to hide it. Lady, if I can see it from my vantage point, you'd better believe Bluto can. And by the way, someone ought to tell him he's supposed to drink the Budweiser, not bathe in it. I can smell him from here.

Oohh! Julliard just kicked him in the shins. Nice move, but didn't anyone ever tell her you don't just stand there and watch? Either follow up with another move or get out of there! Oh great, now she let him recover. I inch along the ledge until I'm directly behind Bluto. Julliard looks up, just as I jump off. She sees me hovering in mid-air floating down, and screams. Oh, way to spoil my entrance, lady. Bluto spins around to face me. I solidify eight feet above and do a double summersault to land on my feet. I stagger, and deliberately sit backward, one arm protecting my face in a _cocorinha_. As the mook moves in for the kill, I roll into a _queda de rina_, balanced on my arms, kicking out behind me. I hear him grunt as my steeltoe meets his kidney, and smile. Aikido, kung fu, ninjitsu, judo—I know them, but I'll still take Brazilian-style capoeira any day. Maybe it's pride—I'm good at something a lot of people have never even heard of. Maybe it's knowing that, in an arena where unpredictability is not just "nice" but necessary, this is a good skill to have. It could just be the rush and thrill of the fight. Whatever it is, I love it. I'm on my feet before he is, plastic cuffs at the ready. Bluto scrambles backward on his rear trying to get away, waving his arms to ward off any incoming blows. It looks a little like a very clumsy _negativo_ defense posture.

If you were to ask me about my favorite move, I'd have to say it's the _parafuso_. The best way I can describe it is to say that it's kind of like a spiral kick—one and a half circles. You take a step forward, kick out and spin, raising the kicking leg higher as you go. Around the 360-degree mark, you leap up so both legs are kicking in the air, returning to a standing posture by 180 degrees. I use it now. It's fun. It's exhilarating. And, if you're old Bluto, it's pretty darn painful. That's one of my let's-end- this-quickly-so-I-can-go-do-something-more-important moves. I time it so the side of my boot meets the side of his skull. Bluto lies there, whimpering. I cuff him.

OK, now what am I supposed to do with him? There's no phone booth around to call for the cops. Julliard ran out once the fight started. Can't fault her for that. Dump him in the dumpster? That's so unoriginal. Still, it's here, he's here, I'm here...

"What is Psion Force doing in Manhattan?"

Oh, _now_ he's here? I turn to face Nightwing. This would be the perfect time for me to make some crack about helping to clean up the trash, or keeping the streets safe, or something. But I don't. Maybe because any quip would make a truly awkward segue way into the reason I'm here looking for him. Maybe because usually, he's the one to make the flip remarks. Maybe. I crane my neck to make eye contact.

"It's not Psion Force," I say wearily. "It's just me. Is there someplace we can talk?"

He points skyward. I look down to Bluto. "Don't worry," Nightwing says. "That's taken care of. Nice kick, by the way."

"Thanks." He fires his jumpline. I fire mine. I get there about five seconds before he does. Probably because I weigh less.

Once we're roof-side, he looks at me. "You've been watching my apartment." He says. "Why?"

Now that the moment is here, it's hard to get the words out. So I start off with an answer that really doesn't answer anything. "Looking for you."

"Why?"

"To talk." What's with the monosyllables?

He clenches his hands at his sides. "Let me guess," he says sarcastically. "Batman has been going off the deep end lately. Robin can't get him to slow down, and you're hoping maybe I can?"

I see red. And it's _not_ my braids. Maybe I used the _parafuso_ on the wrong guy. Before I can stop myself, I say, "Right now, getting him to slow down is probably the last thing you need to worry about. Some character named Bane threw Batman off the top of a 10-storey in Robinson Square last Sunday night. When I left he was in critical condition. Stupid me thought maybe you'd want to know."

He doesn't move. He barely blinks. He just stares at me. "No." He says, flatly. "You're lying."

It's not that he doesn't believe—of course I know that--it's that he doesn't want to believe. But calling me a liar is one of the easiest ways to push my buttons. And I don't want to say something I can't take back. So, all I say is "Sure." Then I deliberately turn my back on him, and extend my right forearm in front of my chest, left index finger beginning its descent to depress the stud that will fire off the jumpline.

"Wait."

His voice is quiet. He's using that tone you use when you know you have to hear something but don't want to. Know the one I mean? What you do is, you ask so softly that the other party can pretend to ignore you, and you can shrug your shoulders and say you tried. Been there. It's tempting to give in and leap off. But I've just spent four nights on a two foot ledge with Victor and Hugo waiting for him, and I'm not going to let him off that easily. I turn back.

"I'm sorry." He gestures across the alleyway to the window I've been watching. "Come on in. You'd..." He takes a deep breath. "You'd better tell me everything."

My turn to inhale. "I have to make a really weird request. Could you leave the front door to your apartment open? Just a crack?"

"What? You're claustrophobic?"

The easy thing to do would be to say "yes." But I'm not, and he'll figure that out pretty quickly if he's anything like Batman. "How much do you know about us? Psion Force."

"Batman told me some of the details." What I said before is starting to sink in. "He's really that badly hurt?"

"I don't know," I admit. "I haven't checked in with the rest of the team in four nights. Did he happen to mention that we're Jewish? Orthodox?"

Now he really looks confused. "Yes. So?"

"So I can't be alone in a room with a man who is neither my husband nor a close relative, if the door is closed and it's unlikely that anyone else would come in."

You know, it would probably be easier if I were Amish, or something. If people knew that I drove a horse and buggy, pumped water for washing, didn't have electricity or a telephone, and had never heard of the Internet, it wouldn't throw them off. But faced with a person who listens to the radio, goes to the movies (I'll admit we don't have a TV, but let's leave that for now), attends university, and still won't flick an electric light switch on the Sabbath, it's almost a challenge to their worldview.

I remember explaining to Green that I wouldn't read her e-mails between sunset on Friday nights and three-stars-in-the-sky Saturdays. Her comment was, "Wow. You know, I can't get over this. I mean one minute, it's tech talk, or girl talk, and the next minute, you spring something like this on me, and there's a whole other side to you I never suspected. It's almost like—"

"Having a secret identity?" I replied. She laughed, and the conversation shifted. But she did have a point.

Now, Nightwing looks at me like I have to be kidding. When he sees I'm not, he agrees. Reluctantly. Okay, _chas veshalom_ anyone should ever come to me with a message about Callie like the one I'm giving him about Bruce. If they did, however, I don't think I'd want the door open so anyone could overhear either. But I didn't make the rule. And some rules aren't made to be broken. "Whatever," he says finally.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

He hasn't been home for a while. There's more than a week's worth of dust in here. Granted, in a bachelor's apartment, that isn't necessarily significant. But there are no dishes accumulated in the sink, and the only footprints in the grime on the hardwood floor are the ones we're making now. Nightwing wedges a rubber triangle in between the door and post. He turns to me. "Talk."

So I do. I tell him about how Batman shouted me down when I offered to help him against Black Mask, and how he nabbed the gang but let Sionis escape. I tell him how I've seen Batman falter against the kind of punks I was trouncing within six months of arriving in Gotham.

"And then, there was that explosion at Arkham." I stop when I see his eyes widen. "You didn't hear about that?"

"I've been out of the country for the last six weeks," he says quietly. "Brazil. I got back this afternoon, but when I spotted you outside—"

Under normal circumstances, I'd probably have more empathy. Probably. But if I stop now, I won't finish. And he needs to hear this. "The explosion was in the maximum security wing. It put a hole in the complex, blew out the containment programming, and the nuts came pouring out." Funny, if you speak in a monotone, it's a lot easier. "Joker, Poison Ivy, Scarecrow, Two-Face..."

His jaw drops. I continue, not sure why I'm putting him through this. "Mr. Zsasz, Scarface and the Ventriloquist, Cornelius Stirk... you know Maxie Zeus ran into a tree, straightjacket and all, and knocked himself out cold." I smile, a little bitterly. "Of course security was too busy trying to collar the really dangerous ones, to even notice. When the dust cleared, he was gone, too. Probably one of his gang picked him up, I don't know. Doesn't matter.

"You've obviously known Batman longer than I have. Is it really necessary to detail how he's been reacting to the breakout?"

Dick slowly shakes his head. "He ran himself into the ground before Bane even laid a hand on him. Didn't he?" He moves over to his answering machine. "If he called for backup and I wasn't here..."

There are seven messages. One is a hang-up call. One is from someone named "Donna" calling to see how he is. Then there's one from "Wally," and from "Roy." A recording from some pizza shop advises that if he orders one large pizza with at least 3 toppings he can get a second one for half price. Then...

"Dick! Bro, it's me. Listen; is there any way you can come in for a few days? Bruce is never going to admit it but we could really use a hand here. Call when you get this." Dick punches a button on the machine, and a recorded voice produces: Sent... Friday at... ten... forty-three... P.M. New message from... an outside caller.

"Seven... days," he says between clenched teeth. "Seven days ago, I would have picked this up, if I'd _bothered_ to check in for my messages. I could have hopped the next flight, been in Gotham by Sunday morning. That would have been plenty of time."

I want to put my hand on his arm. But I can't. So I fall back into stereotypical Jewish-mother mode and check his kitchen for munchies. I pull out a package of Sara Lee cheesecake bites from his freezer, and in the cupboard next to the two coffee canisters, I find a box of Quietly Chamomile. It only takes a minute to put water in the electric kettle and plug it in. He sees, but doesn't acknowledge.

I recognize the final voice on the speaker. "Dick. Call me. There's something you need to know. It's bad. If you already found out... call me anyway." Green. The machine beeps a final long tone to signal the end of the messages. Dick slams his hand down on the side table. He picks up the receiver and hits a speed dial button. After a minute, he bangs the receiver back down down.

"They're not answering," he snaps. "Get your gear together, _fast_. I want to be out of this city in thirty minutes."

"My civvies aren't far." I give him the name of the hostel. "Eat first." I push the plate of individually-wrapped cheesecakes at him. "I need to use your phone."

He waves the plate away. "I'll eat when I get to Gotham."

Like heck he will. Like father like son. "In other words," I say, "you're not going to eat or sleep until you accomplish what you set out to do. Because you won't be eating or sleeping, you won't be able to give it your best, so your performance is only going to deteriorate from there. You know, this is starting to sound like déjà vu all over again." I thought I was talking about Callie. From Dick's reaction, it looks like she isn't the only person I was describing. He glowers at me, not knowing how useless that response is. It didn't work when Batman tried it on me four years ago, and it won't work now.

"Look at it this way," I say reasonably. "All those guys you put away time after time?" I roll my eyes. "After time, after time, after time?" Some of them are probably spoiling for a rematch. Now, if you pass out from jetlag and lack of food and crash your motorcycle into a tree and go up in a fiery blaze of glory, don't you think it's kind of like cheating them? Do you really want to sink to their level?"

If all else fails, be obnoxious. Bronwen once said I'm an irritant when I want to be. I'm kind of like the sand that gets into the oyster. Sometimes I'll produce a pearl, sometimes just an itchy rash. But nobody's ever going to ignore me. After thinking it over, I decide I can live with that assessment.

Judging from Nightwing's expression, he doesn't know whether to laugh, cry, or stomp off. He settles for ripping open one of the foil wrappers and biting a cheesecake in half. I set the plate down on the counter. It's time to call home.


	4. Chapter 3: The Road Not Taken

Disclaimer: The usual. DC owns anyone you recognize from the comics. They also hold copyright to some of the dialogue in this chapter. Check out the back issues compiled in the Knightfall: Who owns the Night TPB to find out which. Psion Force is mine. All original dialogue is mine.

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later.

**Chapter 3**

**The Road Not Taken**

_Four nights earlier…_

"Well?" Robin asked. "How is he?"

Alfred answered first. "He's in shock. And he's lost a great deal of blood and there are certainly massive internal injuries and…" He hesitated.

"And?" Tim prompted.

"I think… I think his back… may be…"

All the color drained from the boy's face as he realized what Alfred was trying to tell him. "Oh my G-d." His expression hardened. "We've got to get him to a hospital."

"We are taking him back to the cave."

Robin looked to Callie for support.

"Honestly, Mr. Pennyworth," Cal said quietly, "he might have a point."

"We will do the best for him that we can. I've repaired his broken body many a—"

"Has it ever been broken this badly?" Callie asked.

"Listen to me, Alfred!" Tim pleaded. "We have _got_ to take him to a hospital. We've got to save his life."

Alfred spoke firmly, calculating the effect of his words. "The only life that's important to him is his life as Batman. Take him to a hospital and you'll expose Batman to be Bruce Wayne. You'll save his body, certainly. But you will have killed the man."

Tim swallowed and nodded his understanding. Callie thought back to a night, over four years earlier, when she had been in a similar situation. A teammate injured, a lack of confidence in her fledgling medical abilities, no doctor. Faced with the same decision, she had made the opposite call. In retrospect, she still felt that it would have been the correct move—had Kensai and Umbra not given her new information. But now, she was a little older, a bit more experienced, and somewhat more knowledgeable. She considered. The ink was barely dry on her medical diploma—but she had it—and eight years of education under her belt. Alfred might not have the piece of paper, but his medical expertise currently outstripped her own.

She checked herself. "All these years, all these lessons," she muttered furiously to herself, "and you're still not getting it." She wasn't the one in control. Life and death were not in her hands. The only thing expected of her was everything she could do—nothing less, but nothing more either. Leave the rest to the One in charge. Batman's condition was still critical, but it was stable. Between her and Alfred, they should be able to recognize any change for the worse. Then difficult decisions might be forced upon them. But for now, she would do her part. Then, later, she could devote some energy toward finding Bane and making him pay.

"Mr. Pennyworth," she said, "If this is how we are to proceed, I'm bringing one of my sisters up to the manor." She pulled out her cell phone and dialed a number before Alfred could stop her. "Bron?"

"Callie! How is—"

"This line is not secure," she cut her older sister off smoothly. "Come to the same place we brought Jill last time. You know how to get there?"

There was a moment's pause. "Yes. Alright, I'm on my way. We have a few things to discuss."

Alfred was frowning as she put the cell away. "Miss Callie, I must protest—"

"Mr. Pennyworth," Cal interrupted firmly, "believe me when I say I understand your position. Allow me to make mine clear. If I honestly felt that I'd done everything I could here, my next move would be to throw caution to the winds, and go hunting for the… entity… that did this! Yes!" she replied to his shocked stare. "Even after seeing what he can do. Even knowing that going in recklessly is suicidal. Right now, the only thing holding me here is duty. And when that is no longer reason, nor reason enough… I'm going to need Bronwen."

* * *

The cave was a shambles. Not that Alfred, Jean-Paul, or Callie were paying much attention. They were too busy hooking Bruce to the medical equipment. Tim looked around. Interesting. The trophies, whether normally stored in the open, like the dinosaur and giant penny, or encased in glass, like Jason Todd's Robin costume, were in disarray. Display cases had been shattered, wooden furnishings splintered, and there were fresh dents and scratches on most of the computers and laboratory equipment. He blinked. The medical equipment, however, was virtually unscathed. Why? Had Bruce steered the fight away from the sickbay area knowing he'd need it later? Somehow, knowing how exhausted Bruce had been for the last few weeks, Tim doubted it. But Bane… Tim gasped. Bane hadn't wanted to kill Batman at all! He'd wanted to destroy him, but make sure that he was alive to… to… witness his enemy's triumph. Leaving the medical supplies intact, making sure Alfred was incapacitated but not seriously hurt, Bruce's injuries… severe, maybe permanent, but not necessarily fatal… all of it had been calculated. It had to have been. In sudden rage Tim kicked one of the swivel chairs. It flew into the computer console with a less-than-satisfying crash, and rolled back. He couldn't tell if the dent left behind had been there before. 

"Tim! A little quiet, please." Callie didn't manage to keep the irritation out of her voice. After her one outburst in the ambulance, she had reverted to the calm, confident demeanor that she had previously demonstrated. True, her gestures seemed slightly quicker and jerkier. Yes, her boots stamped a little louder on the stone floor than was absolutely necessary. Alfred was apparently choosing to overlook this behavior. But Tim was relieved that he and Cal were on the same side.

"Sorry." He picked his way through the debris to stand by the bed. "How is he?" He asked.

"He's stabilized, somewhat," Callie replied. "Pulse is steady and getting stronger. Breathing's improved—Alfred do you think we'll need to aerate his left lung again?"

"Quite possibly. I'll monitor."

"So he's out of danger?" Jean-Paul asked.

"No," Alfred replied. "Not entirely. His temperature is alarmingly high. And he's still comatose."

Jean-Paul thought for a moment. "The first twenty-four hours of a coma are the most important, right?"

Callie nodded. "That's when he has the best chance of recovery."

Tim gripped the edge of an equipment table with one hand, while forming a fist with the other. "Come on, Bruce!" He all but snarled. "_Fight it! _If you're going to come out of this, you have to fight."

Alfred placed a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. "He'll need more than his fighting spirit, Tim. His fever won't go down unless I can stop the swelling in his spinal tissue."

"And can you do that?"

"Not with what I have here," he admitted. "We'll need a drug called Decadron. It's specifically made for the treatment of spinal trauma. It's the only way to reduce the swelling. But only if it's administered within the next hour."

Tim shrugged off the hand, and shoved his mask back on. "Then what are we waiting for? We'll _get_ some. Paul, we'll take the Batmobile!" He dashed off in the direction of the car without a backwards glance.

Jean-Paul hesitated. "Go." Callie said urgently.

"I—" he began.

"Alfred didn't tell him everything," she said softly. "If Batman doesn't get the Decadron, he'll be paralyzed for life. Go. _Hatzlacha_."

"Hatzlaha?" He tried unsuccessfully to pronounce the fricative h.

"It means success. Go."

He went.

Callie cleared her throat. "There's nothing more I can do without that drug, except pray. So, I'm going upstairs to do that, while I wait for Bronwen." She looked away. "I didn't mean to just barge in and take over, but this whole thing is hitting me a little closer than I'm comfortable with."

"If there is something you would like to discuss?"

Callie gave him a wan smile. "It would probably help to pass the time—and maybe I will later. It's just that… if I start talking about some of this, it may… betray certain confidences. It's possible that the people involved won't mind, but I'd need to clear it with them first. Tabitha told me four years ago that certain questions came up that she had to sidestep. Maybe it's time to answer them. For now, let's just say I went through a period when I had real trouble delegating responsibilities. It's hard to say definitively that I would have had a physical or mental breakdown, but it probably wasn't outside the realm of possibility. I'm going to say this wrong. It's going to sound callous but…" Her eyes darted over to the bed where Bruce lay unmoving.

"There but for the grace of G-d…"

Callie nodded. "Exactly. Forget the talents He gave me for a moment. He also granted me a great support network, and the guts to try using it before things got as serious for me. Bronwen's always been a major anchor for me. And when the main thing running through my mind is: find the one who did this to him—" she gestured toward Bruce, "and give that one a dose of his own medicine… I need someone who can hold me back."

A buzzer sounded in the cave. "That would be the main gate," Alfred said. "Under the circumstances," he beckoned her to the security camera display, "can you confirm the identity of this individual?"

Callie glanced at the screen. "Yes, that's Bron. I'll go upstairs." Alfred started to demur. Callie stopped him with a smile. "You'll do more good down here as a medic, than upstairs as a butler, opening a door I can open for myself. Don't you think?"

Without waiting for an answer, she dashed up the stairs.

Left alone with Bruce, Alfred sank wearily on to a stool. "Do try to hold on, Master Bruce," he whispered as he absently pushed a stray lock of hair back from the injured man's forehead. He rechecked the monitors. There had been no change in the last five minutes. Not that he expected one. All he could do was pray that Tim and Jean-Paul returned soon.

* * *

Callie led her sister silently back into the den, ignoring the smashed clock and battered, fragmented furniture. She lowered her lanky frame onto an ottoman footstool, which had been spared the damage. "Talk me _down_, Bronwen," she said quietly. "Before I do something I'll regret." 

Bronwen sat down in the armchair behind, leaning her forearm crutch against the side. "Tell me what you've already told yourself. Repeated lectures go in one ear and out the other," she said mildly.

Callie sighed. "Come on."

"Seriously. Let's go through the list. Callantha Aaronson's best tongue-lashings, volume one: running off half-cocked isn't just irresponsible—it's stupid. Your first responsibility is to your patient. Your second one is to the team." She looked sharply at her sister. "You won't be doing either any favors if Bane drops _you _in Robinson Square," she continued.

"Nice to know you think so highly of me," Callie muttered.

"I think enough of you to know that you're looking for good reasons not to go getting yourself killed. You're getting them in the order in which they occur to me. Remember Tabitha's pearls of wisdom? When you go swimming, you go with a buddy. When you go camping, you go with a buddy. When you go rock climbing, you go with a buddy. And when you take on a bully who's just taken down someone you've spent the last few years looking up to, you…"

Callie was silent.

"Cal?"

"Take him down hard before he becomes a threat to the rest of the team," she replied wearily.

Bronwen made a sound halfway between a snarl and a sigh. "You're being deliberately difficult."

"There's a man downstairs who needs a drug we don't know if we can get, within the next forty-five minutes or he'll be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life," Cal snapped back. "And, instead of maybe agreeing with Robin and insisting we take him to a hospital, where maybe, just maybe, they'd be able to administer the stuff, I let Alfred convince me to take him back here, so we can keep his secret identity secret—even if as a result it becomes moot, because Batman is never heard from again." She spun away from Bronwen, and waved her hands at their surroundings. "Besides which it looks like Bane already knows."

Bronwen let out a long breath. "Oh-kayyy. So. You acted against your better judgment. You're mad at yourself for acquiescing to someone else's decision, especially now that it looks like the consequences are pretty severe. You're probably mad at Batman, because you've spent the last few years trying to match his skills—"

"What?"

"Maybe not consciously," Bronwen amended hastily. "But you know, I've lost track of the number of times I've seen you practicing some kata or other, for hours on end, until you're well past what Sophie would have called the 'point of diminishing returns. And whenever anyone tells you to take a break, you say something like '_he_ wouldn't.' And now, _he_ has the gall to end up like this and you're taking it personally."

Callie rose to her full five-feet-eleven-inches, towering over her older sister. "I cannot BELIEVE you just said that! Of all the—"

"Are we all done feeling sorry for ourselves, now?" Bronwen asked brightly.

Callie choked off the words in mid-sentence.

"Good. Now listen. Right decision, wrong decision, it was made. Is someone trying to get the medication?"

Callie nodded.

"Good. That's something. Mr. Wayne's condition is stable?"

"For now."

"That's something else. Think he'd be touched, guilt-ridden, or furious if he knew you were going to try to get yourself killed avenging him?"

Callie looked sharply at Bronwen.

"Hey, just asking. Listen, do you really want me to tell you the story about the man and the sticks, again?"

"The one where the father shows his sons how easy it is to snap an individual branch in half, but not a whole bundle, the moral being united we stand, divided we fall?"

"That's the one. Look, you don't need someone to state the obvious. If Bane can take out Batman, he can take out any one of us, with varying degrees of difficulty. But if we bide our time, work as team to keep the crime situation in Gotham stable for now, and later work on Bane, again as a team, I think it could play out a little differently." She sighed. "Then again, I'm not the leader of this little outfit of ours. Maybe I missed something. But if you put that forward in a strategy session, I'd second that motion." She put her hand on Callie's shoulder. "What do you think?"

Callie placed her hand on Bronwen's opposite shoulder. "I think you've convinced me to stay put tonight, anyway." She frowned. "You said something about other business to discuss?"

"Right. Alison called from Chicago. The sports medicine conference is over in three days, but the two she really wants to hear speak are presenting at the end. She said she's usually back in the hotel room after six, and you can call her for advice, but she seems to have gotten fooled like the rest of us, and is convinced you know what you're doing.

"Cal. That was a joke. You can laugh."

"Ha-ha," she said without inflection.

Bronwen sobered. "More seriously, Sophie put herself through a training assessment, and she's nowhere near up to speed. Apparently her regular workout regimen isn't enough. She says it'll probably be a few weeks before she'll be ready to really be out there, but she's working on pushing that up a bit. She's taking off work this week, anyway, and Jaime starts summer camp next Monday. The problem is that someone's going to have to watch Jaime this week. Raul's doing that LA consulting for the next month or so."

Callie frowned. Her brother-in-law was an economic consultant, whose work currently involved periodic travel. Usually that wasn't an issue. Now, however, there was a six-year-old nephew to consider. A six-year-old nephew, possessing the ability to increase and decrease the mass of an object at will, but who still needed supervision and training. If Sophie was that far off her game, she was going to have to spend most of her free time retraining. Kay was doing a summer assistantship in criminal law and working long hours. And if Callie was calling up the lone reserve member, there was no way that she could justify pulling an active member off of the duty roster.

"Can't you take him?" She asked.

"To baby-sit, at least during part of the day, yes. But I can't train him, and if his control slips, I can't help him. Maybe Umbra could look after him, when you're not teaching him—"

"I can't pull Umbra off the streets with what's doing out there."

Bronwen was silent.

"What?"

"She's not here, then." It was a statement, not a question.

Callie shook her head. "No, of course not. She's needed out there." Her head snapped up. "Are you saying she's not out there?"

"Nobody saw her after she went upstairs with you." Bronwen said. "You don't think something happened—"

"To her? No. If she was in real trouble, she'd have a way to signal." Callie hoped. "Did she leave a note? Anything?"

"No note. Her costume and gear are gone, and so is one of the knapsacks. I called the TRAFICK Centre—you know she spends a lot of her free time there to…"

"Help the kids stage plays," Callie said impatiently. "Yes, I know. Obviously she wasn't there…" she closed her eyes, focusing her telepathic talents, scanning for her youngest sister. "I had to go teach her how to shield," she snapped. "There's no way I can find her if I don't know where to look." She exhaled noisily. "There's nothing I can do right now but leave it. How could she just… run off like this?"

Bronwen shook her head. "Maybe she thought she had something more important. I've got both home phones on forward to my cell. The minute she calls, I'll let you know. And Jaime?"

Callie closed her eyes. Alfred was _not _going to appreciate this. "I'm here for the duration. He… he may as well join me. We'll work something out. You'll bring him round tomorrow?"

"Around noon. Oh, and Natalie gave me a message for you."

"I'm almost afraid to ask."

Bronwen smiled. "You'll like this one. Her exact words were: 'tell Cal I've been thinking about Beaver Creek, and I think this is something he should hear from us before he does his own checking. If he finds out some other way, it's only going to make things worse.' Does that take a load off?"

Callie nodded. "It would. Unfortunately a lot more has been piled on lately."

"Yeah," Bronwen said, studying her sister critically. "You do have that crushed-between-the-millstones look to you. You're staying tonight, then?"

"I'm working. I have to."

"I'm not arguing. Do you want me to stay, too?"

She considered. "How much time would it take you to get back here with an overnight bag?"

"It's already in the trunk. Let's just say I played a hunch."

Behind Bronwen, a throat cleared. Callie stepped around her sister. Jean-Paul stood at the head of the stairs leading down to the cave. "We've returned," he said unnecessarily. "Alfred is feeding the Decadron into the IV as we speak. He said your sister can join us, if she wishes."

Bronwen picked up her crutch. "Are the stairs alright?"

"There's some broken glass on them, but they're not slippery or anything," Cal reflected.

"Then show me down," she said, sliding her forearm through the aperture.

The two followed Jean-Paul back to the cave.

"What happens now?" Robin was asking Alfred.

"The hardest part," the older man replied soberly. "The waiting."


	5. Chapter 4: Meanwhile at the Museum

Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later.

Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed. It's great to know when your writing is appreciated. (But, hey, those of you who write already know that!)

**Chapter 4**

**Interlude: Meanwhile, At the Museum...**

"What were they thinking?" Pathwarden demanded, disgusted, waving a color booklet, titled 'Treasures of the Classical World'. "The Van Dyke Gallery is proud to present... Head of Zeus, Zeus Abducting Ganymede, Roman Silver statuette of Jupiter— Why didn't they just tell Maxie where he can park his getaway car?"

Phasma smiled tolerantly at her husband. "I don't believe they were expecting him."

"That's like holding a cookout near a swamp and not expecting mosquitoes."

"I'm in position," Kensai's voice cut tersely through the banter. "Skylight. He got in the same way I'm going to, so the alarms are already cut."

"Roger that," Naiad confirmed. "Anything fragile in there, or can we risk a windstorm?"

"It's a museum," Phasma interrupted. "Ninety per cent of what's in there is old, fragile, and irreplaceable. Just think of this as a chance to practice your aikido. It's getting sloppy."

"How would you know? I haven't used it in ages."

"The defense rests, your honor," Phasma replied, absolutely deadpan.

Kensai stifled a sigh. "If the wisecracking prerequisite has been met, people, can we get on with this?"

"Sure. How many are there, squirt?"

"Two at the north doors, two at the south, and Maxie talking to a water pitcher."

"What?" This from Naiad.

"I'm serious. It's a clay jug. I can't make out the pattern from here, but I think it's red-figure pottery, black background..."

"Hold on." Pathwarden rifled through the booklet. "I think I know why. If that's what it sounds like...yep, here we go. It's a Campanian wine pourer; on loan from the... how the heck do you pronounce this? The Koont... no Kunst... the Kunsthistorisches Museum," he proclaimed triumphantly, "in Vienna. According to this, it shows a scene from the myth of Io, one of Zeus' romances..."

"Oh, right!" Kensai remembered. "Hera turned her into a cow. That would explain why he's over the moon about it." Her voice changed. "I've just been spotted. One of the south guards is heading toward the roof access. ETA is ninety seconds and falling. Do I want him to get me?"

Pathwarden considered. "Diversions are usually good. Go for it. Just be..." he stopped. "What am I saying? You're always careful. Don't change." He shut down the channel, and looked at the other two. "Right. Naiad, you're with me. We'll take the two at the North door. Phasma, the one at the south is all yours."

"On it," Phasma replied. She made a dash in the direction of the stairwell.

Naiad started in the opposite direction. "Wait," Pathwarden called softly. She spun about, causing the long ringlets that emerged from beneath her helmet to sweep her shoulders. "Maxie Zeus is a lightweight. There really shouldn't be any need for grandstanding." 

Naiad's blue eyes opened very wide. "Grandstanding?" She asked innocently. "What do you mean by that?"

Pathwarden threw up his hands. "You know exactly what I mean. Just because you have that kind of power, doesn't mean you have to use it exclusively."

Naiad brought her finger to her brother's lip. "Time's wasting. I'll try to tone it down."

Pathwarden nodded curtly, and lowered the visor on his helmet. "Let's move. What...?" A synthesized voice broke through his commlink. From the perplexed look on Naiad's face, it appeared to be on his link alone.

"Hel-lo... This is Or-a-cle," the voice said. "Could you use some help?"

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

It _would_ have to be a semi-automatic rifle, Kensai thought with disgust. That particular weapon held associations for her—none of which were pleasant. She was standing against a plaster replica of a Doric column, trying to ignore the gun trained on her. Her eyes darted about the room. Behind the pillar (one of five), papier-mâché representations of the major members of the Greek pantheon stood in a semi-circle. The exhibit room had a high ceiling—easily two-and-a-half stories above them. There was a gallery, one level up, ringing the hall in which she currently found herself. The support pillars would afford secure purchase for her jumpline, if she could get clear of the hench-mook with the firearm. Much of the aforementioned ceiling consisted of an arched skylight, but at intervals around the glass panes, bright banners hung. A catwalk perhaps three feet wide, and painted the same cream-beige as the upper walls, ran the perimeter of the upper half-story. Two more walkways intersected each other at right angles at the centre of the room. They had safety railings, Kensai thought to herself. Those had possibilities. She considered, but discounted the automatic sprinklers. Setting them off would damage the antiquities.

Her brother's voice came quietly over her commlink. "Ready when you are."

Kensai relaxed. Finally. "What's the angle, Maxie?" she asked, feigning boredom. "Building a shrine to the ladies you've loved and lost through the years, or was it just really hard to find a conversation piece that wouldn't clash with your Venus de Milo knock-off?"

Maxie Zeus tore his gaze from the pottery jug with some irritation. "Maiden, address me not so familiar, lest I hurl a thunderbolt through thy heart." he replied. "I am the immortal Zeus."

Kensai smiled sweetly. "Of course you are. That would explain why you need this gentleman standing over me with an AK-47." She nodded toward her captor. "You _do_ know that if he actually fires that thing at me, the bullet's liable to go through this pillar and take out Apollo's kneecap, right?" If he didn't know she was wearing Kevlar, she wasn't going to tell him. At point-blank range, it might not be enough protection, at any rate.

Maxie considered. "Pontus!" he commanded the gunman, "move her into the corner. I'll not risk having my son's likeness besmirched."

The thug pointed her there with the rifle. "Go on, you!"

Kensai shrugged. "What?" she drawled, moving several steps forward. "You want me to move... NOW!"

On her signal, Pathwarden burst through the north door, a glowing ball of light in his left hand. Simultaneously, a pair of periwinkle-gloved hands appeared, clutching the top of the south doorway lintel. The rest of Phasma swung in a split-second later, as both of her feet kicked the lone guard in his shoulder blades. He staggered forward and fell heavily over a waist-high freestanding placard.

Pathwarden hurled the glowing orb directly into the faces of the two sentries. They cried out and shielded their eyes, too late. Once they were blinded, Pathwarden dispatched them easily.

Seeing her guard distracted, Kensai quickly dropped to the ground, rolled out of the way, and dashed to cover behind the pillars. From there, she reached into her pouch and pulled out a small dart, heavy for its size. She removed the rubber protective tip, aimed, and threw it. It sailed unerringly between the pillars to lodge itself in the gunman's glove. A sharp curse advised her that it had penetrated the thin leather and pierced the skin beneath.

"Who just held a gun on my sister?" Naiad demanded. She stood nonchalantly, holding two spheres roughly the size of tennis balls, one in each hand. One glowed with an incandescent fire; the other globe was of ice.

What a showoff, Kensai thought to herself. The numbing agent on her dart should take effect any second now. Once it did, the mook's hand would be so much deadweight for the next hour or so. Before that could happen, however, her former captor leveled the weapon at her sister and squeezed off a shot.

Training took over. Naiad raised her left arm to block the bullet with her armguard. Stretching back her right arm, she hurled the fireball at the rifle. As the sphere impacted, the tip of the gun muzzle glowed brownish red. The color began to spread down the length of the barrel. The guard screamed, dropped the weapon and began to run. The metal of the gun took on the color of blood, then shifted to cherry and began to soften like a chocolate bar left on a radiator.

Naiad threw the ice globe to the ground directly in front of the fleeing thug.

Kensai's eyes widened. Swiftly, she released her jumpline, looping it around one of the narrow support pillars of the second-level gallery. Once it was secured, she retracted the cable, allowing herself to be propelled into the air. This would have to be timed perfectly.

Naiad's ice-sphere shattered on impact, and the man skidded and slipped on the polished stone floor plowing into Maxie Zeus. Startled, Maxie went flying—and so did the wine pourer.

Kensai was in mid-dive even before Maxie had lost his grip on the artifact. She let go of the jumpline in order to snatch the amphora with one hand, while she fired off a second cable with the other. This one caught one of the catwalk railing supports, but the wrench when it did nearly made her drop the jug. Her shoulder. She must have dislocated her shoulder. What did she expect? Kensai thought, disgusted. She'd just thrown her entire body weight onto that one joint. Stupid. She didn't have the leverage to pull herself up. And if one of her teammates were to swing up here and land on the metal catwalk, the vibrations stood a good chance of jarring her loose. Lovely. Idly, she wondered how long she could dangle.

And then, hands, chain-mail gauntleted hands, reached down and grabbed her. Kensai passed the wine-pourer to Pathwarden, who set it aside and pulled her under the railing, onto the catwalk. "How..." she began.

Her brother grinned at her. "You didn't know about the elevator?" He asked.

Kensai glowered at him. "The public," she winced.

Pathwarden gently examined the shoulder. "Let's check this," he said.

"The public," Kensai began again, "wouldn't be able to get up here. There'd have to be a key, or a code, or... ah!" There was an instant of agony, as Pathwarden slid the bone back into place. Then, blissfully, the pain vanished.

"You're going to want to ice that when we get back," he said. "And you're right. You do need an access code to get up here. Fortunately, I've been talking with someone tonight who was able to provide it."

Kensai frowned. "Oracle?"

"How'd you know?"

"From what Umbra says, she's the main resource person for... people like us."

"_She_?"

Kensai paused. "I think so. You don't?"

"It wasn't a real voice. It was a voder. I guess I wasn't really thinking about it one way or the other." He patted her good shoulder. "Nice work, there. I almost had a heart attack when Maxie dropped that thing."

Kensai smiled. "I nearly had one, myself, when I realized that creep was going to smash into Maxie." She looked at the jug critically. "Not something I'd pick out for myself, this," she remarked. "Let's go back down."

"You're welcome."

She flushed. "I'm sorry, Pathwarden! I—"She sighed and struggled to her feet. "You just saved my life. It's just, before we headed out tonight, I told Bron to let Callie know that it was alright for her to tell Batman about... about what happened when I was..."

"When you were four years old," Pathwarden supplied. He let out a low whistle. "That's hard. You want Naiad to melt that gun any further?"

Kensai managed a shaky smile. "Leave it. She's done enough, already. Thanks. Really. Thanks. Let's go."

As they emerged from the elevator onto the main exhibit floor, they could hear Phasma phoning GCPD. They could also hear Maxie Zeus bellowing about the indignity that his capture was inflicting upon him.

"And if thou woudst not be smitten by a thunderbolt, thou shalt..."

"Oh, shut it!" Naiad snapped. "You've got about as much chance of calling one down, as _he_ does," she said, pointing to one of the bound henchmen. Kensai noted idly that her sister was still bouncing a pulsating sphere in one hand. It looked like a ball of electricity. No. She wouldn't...

Naiad turned her back deliberately on the sputtering pseudo-deity, and then whirled back. "Oh, and Maxie?" she said, as the globe in her hand unfurled and took on the shape of Captain Marvel's chest insignia, "_THIS_ is a thunderbolt!"


	6. Chapter 5: I Thought You Might Like Some...

Disclaimer: See previous chapters. 

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later.

A/N: Some Hebrew terminology in this chapter. _Tzedaka_ literally means "righteousness". It is usually translated, however, as "charity". In general, ten per cent of all earnings are set aside to be given away to those less fortunate. _Ima_ is the Hebrew word for "Mother". A _mitzvah_ can be translated as either a "good deed", or as a religious obligation. It is a _mitzvah_ to visit the sick. The Hebrew noun for this act is "_bikur cholim_". One who performs this _mitzvah_ is "_m'vaker choleh_."

**Chapter 5**

**"I Thought You Might Like Some Marzipan"**

_Six a.m. the next morning..._

Alfred closed the door to the master bedroom softly behind him. He joined Tim, Callie, Bronwen, and Jean-Paul downstairs in the kitchen. The four might have been statues for all they reacted to his presence. Tim's eyes were tightly closed against tears that had stopped flowing. They were threatening to start again. Callie rested her forehead in her hand, oblivious to the arm Bronwen extended around her. Jean-Paul sat, unmoving, both hands gripping the wooden table as if preparing to bench-press it.

"He is... resting, at the moment," Alfred said gently.

Tim looked up at him, blinking rapidly. "He'll get better? Right?"

Alfred hesitated. "We can hope, Master Timothy."

Bronwen looked at her watch. "I'd better get moving. Cal, if things are... going to stay as they are, for the next little while, it's going to impact our... operations, isn't it?"

Callie didn't answer.

"Sis? You awake in there?" Bron sighed. Then, deliberately, she slid her crutch off of her wrist and made a show of balancing it against the side of the kitchen chair. As intended, it fell to the floor with an audible clatter, rousing, however briefly, the others from their lethargy. Bronwen lowered herself to the ground without a trace of self-consciousness to retrieve it. "If it's any consolation," she said, "I don't think my 'Pollyanna subroutine' kicked in, right after my accident, either." Her expression turned thoughtful. "If memory serves, even Pollyanna needed some time to get used to the idea after she took _her_ tumble. Give him a few days."

Tim looked up. "How did it happen?" He asked, pointing to the crutch.

Bronwen righted the device. "I was caught in a warehouse fire," she said calmly. "I got pinned under a ceiling support. In plain language, my right leg is paralyzed. And, I have two pins in my hip due to a fractured femur. The crutch helps, though. Quite a bit, really."

Jean-Paul blinked. "This happened to you when you were in costume."

Bronwen sighed. "No, actually, it didn't. I was working as a bike courier. There was a delivery I had to make at the waterfront. A few kids were playing in one of the derelict buildings. To this day, we're not sure whether someone was negligent and left some oily rags lying around, or whether it was arson, but the building went up, and two boys were still in there. What else could I do?" She smiled ruefully. "Truthfully, I didn't even have my costume with me. Six years ago, we didn't have Kevlar. The old suits were padded. Way too hot and bulky to carry around." She raised her index finger. "I had a helmet," she said brightly. "Unfortunately, as useful as it is in preventing head injuries, it doesn't do much for spinal trauma.

"How long did it take you to get over it?"

Bronwen grimaced. "Wrong question. But it took a few weeks before I realized that the world wasn't going to just wait for me to rejoin it." She continued speaking aloud, but she was no longer talking to anyone in particular. "A few weeks, followed by a lot of family support, a few late night phone calls to a distress line, rehab, therapy, career counseling, wheelchair basketball... that may have been the longest year of my life." She focused directly on Tim. "Don't use me, or my experiences as any kind of benchmark, though. He'll do things in his own time. Just... be alert. Some people are pretty direct about asking for help. Somehow, I can't shake the feeling that he's not one of them. It _could_ have something to do with the positive dearth of JLA members chasing down the Arkham escapees." She yawned.

"I'd better go home, have breakfast. Cal, you alright for food?"

"Bring some round, when you drop off Jaime," she said. "Precooked."

Alfred cleared his throat. "If you wish to leave, Miss Callie, you may certainly do so. Should Master Bruce's condition change, I can contact you, directly."

"I'm just plain 'Callie', Mr. Pennyworth," Cal returned. "And given the choice between going home and making myself crazy worrying, or being here just in case, would it be a terrible imposition if I just stayed where I am? I'll help you tidy up," she added.

"That's unnecessary, Doctor Aaronson. But I must admit I am concerned about your nephew's imminent arrival. Small boys have a tendency to be curious. They frequently like to explore new surroundings. Certainly, you can appreciate the risks involved in your nephew arriving here at this particular time."

Bronwen said her goodbyes and left, closing the door behind her.

Callie nodded, acknowledging Alfred's concern. "Jaime _is_ inquisitive. And he _does_ like to examine his surroundings. For all that, he also knows that most of the people with whom he currently interacts have private lives, which are best kept private.

"While we were downstairs, waiting for Mr. Wayne to regain consciousness, I did take some time to think about the situation. It seems to me, that, if we don't clean up in the den right away, we can tell Jaime that that particular room is off limits because of the broken glass. That would neutralize the danger posed by his exploring and potentially finding the way into the cave. On the whole, my nephew is a quiet boy. I'll admit that's a double-edged sword. His stealth capabilities are at level eleven already..."

"Level eleven?" Tim interrupted.

"Out of a possible eighteen," she said with a note of pride. "That's not scaled down for his age, by the way, that's according to the same yardstick against which we measure our own talents. In other words, we will have to watch what we say, because he might overhear."

"Surely he knows that eavesdropping is bad manners?"

Callie looked embarrassed. It hit her that what she was revealing wasn't helping her case. Honesty won out. "He understands the theory, Alfred. His problem is in reconciling what we tell him with... what we actually do."

Tim grinned despite himself. "Does he know how to fight, also?"

"Oh, yes," Callie returned the smile. "Judo and karate right now, but he'll start hapkido in the fall. As far as that's concerned, we've told him never to instigate. Martial arts are primarily taught for self-defense, at any rate. Anyway, on the plus side, he's not normally given to running around shouting at the top of his lungs. If you show him where the library is, he'll probably be happy until dinnertime. We can tell him not to open any doors that aren't already open—and just make sure ahead of time that all the necessary ones are closed."

"Callie?" Tim asked, "maybe I could keep an eye on him."

"That would be a big help," she agreed gratefully. "Thanks."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"Can we stop at Zaretsky's?" The little boy asked, bouncing up and down with excitement as his mother shut the door behind him. "Please?"

Bronwen held his hand gently but firmly. "We don't have time. We're running late, as it is."

"But I just got my allowance," he protested, brandishing a five-dollar bill. "See!"

"And so now, you want to spend it all."

"Not _all_ of it," he protested. "I get six dollars a week. One for each year old I am. I told _Ima_ it should be six dollars and three quarters because I'm six and three-quarters years old now, but she said no. So I put sixty cents in the _tzedaka_ box, and forty cents in my giraffe bank, and I want to spend five dollars at Zaretsky's."

"Hmm," Bronwen said, opening the back door of her Camry. Jaime climbed in. "I thought you were supposed to put _half_ your allowance in the giraffe?" She reached in to fasten his seatbelt, while her nephew squirmed uncomfortably. "Don't wriggle."

"I asked Ima. She said I could use the five dollars, if I was doing a _mitzvah_ with it."

Bronwen raised her eyebrows. "All of a sudden it's a _mitzvah_ for you to eat candy? How is that a good deed?"

"It is if I buy to share," he explained as Bronwen shut the rear door. As she opened the driver door, he continued, "_Ima_ said I'm going to a house where there's a really sick man, so I wanted to buy him something really good so he'd feel better."

Bronwen put her key in the ignition. WGKN came on with the motor. She turned the volume down a notch. "And what were you thinking to buy for this really sick man?"

In her car mirror, she saw the small boy's face light up. "Marzipan! I can get two pieces for five dollars including tax, one for him and one for me. So can we please stop at Zaretsky's so I can buy it? Please? Pretty please?"

Her lips twitched. "Why not buy one piece for him and get yourself some jelly beans or something?"

"Because," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, "if he has marzipan, and he sees me eating jelly beans, I think he'll be sad that I don't have any marzipan for me, and he won't enjoy his as much, and I want to give him the marzipan to cheer him up! Please?"

Bronwen managed to suppress her laughter, but it was a near thing. "Zaretsky's is on the way. If I can find parking, we'll stop." A grin split his face from ear to ear. "I said, 'if'" she reminded him.

"This is Deirdre Campbell for WGKN news at noon." A woman's voice cut cleanly into the car via the radio. "There is still no word on the Batman. Crowds in Robinson Square last night got a rare, and horrifying view of the costumed vigilante, as he was thrown from the roof of..." Bronwen turned the radio off with an angry twist of the dial.

"What happened to Batman?" Jaime demanded.

"Since when do you listen to the news?"

"Since they started talking about Batman. What happened? I know it's bad and that's why _Ima_ wants me to stay with Aunt Callie. She said she has to practice hard now, because Batman might not be able to go out for a while and the team needs her. But what happened?"

Bronwen slowed, looking for a parking spot. "He lost a fight." She said, finally, as she turned off of Mooney and onto a quiet side street. "He got hurt."

"Bad?"

"Bad."

"Can Aunt Callie fix him?"

Bronwen slammed the brakes. Seatbelts protected them both from flying forward. "Why Aunt Callie?" She asked.

"No reason," he said, bewildered. "I just asked her once why she wanted to be a doctor, and she said that because when people like us get hurt bad, going to a hospital makes other people ask all kinds of questions, and she wanted to be a doctor so she could fix up the team and those people won't get a chance to ask all kinds of questions. Wouldn't they also ask all kinds of questions if Batman goes to the hospital?"

Bronwen maneuvered the car into a parking spot leaving about a foot to spare in front and behind. "Probably," she admitted. "And if Aunt Callie knew where he was, she would be helping him. But Batman never told us where he lived, so how would she know where to find him?" She opened the door. Jaime already had the seatbelt off.

"She'd know." Jaime said, as he clambered out. "She knows _everything_."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"I'm back, Alfred," Bronwen said with a smile, urging Jaime forward. He shifted the small white paper bag to his left hand, which was already holding a copy of _The Magician's Nephew_, and extended his right to the tall man in the black suit.

Alfred accepted the hand gravely. "So I see. And, good day to you, young sir."

"Hi, Mister. I'm Jaime. Jaime Cardozo." Seeing Alfred's serious demeanor, the boy immediately copied it. "How do you do?" He asked formally.

"Very well, thank you, young sir. And yourself?"

"Well, thank-you, Sir." He might have been doing a screen test for an education video on good manners, Bronwen thought to herself. She sent a friendly smile to the boy standing behind Alfred in the foyer. He had changed to street clothes, but Bronwen recognized that he had to be Robin.

The youth smiled back, guardedly.

"Alfred," she said briskly, "There's a carton in the trunk for Cal. It's not really heavy, but I'd need both hands for it. Could I ask..."

"I'll get it," 'Robin' pushed past Alfred.

"And I'll take that from you," Alfred said, gesturing to the small overnight bag Bronwen held in her left hand.

"Thanks, Alfred that's a help." She turned to the teen. "I'm sorry, I don't think I caught your name?"

"Tim."

"Tim. Thanks." She turned back to Alfred. "Any change?"

"Not at present, Miss Bronwen. I looked in on him not long ago, and he was still asleep."

Bronwen nodded. "And Callie?"

Alfred seemed to collect himself. "I apologize, Miss Bronwen. I should not have kept you standing outside. Come in, both of you. I'll bring you to her."

Alfred led them back to the kitchen. Callie was seated at the table, writing on a pad of loose-leaf secured on a clipboard. She looked up as the three entered. "Bron! Hi! Hey, kiddo!" The boy ran to her. As she stood up, he launched himself into her arms. She embraced him, tightly.

"Aunt Callie! I haven't seen you in CENTURIES!" He exclaimed.

Callie bestowed a kiss on his forehead. "Centuries, huh? Mmm, I guess when I convert that from kid-years to real time..." she set him down and made a show of toting up figures in the air. "I guess it _has_ been almost a week."

Tim entered and set the carton down on the table. Callie smiled her thanks. "What's that you're reading?" she asked her nephew.

He held the thin volume up proudly. "It's about what happened to the professor in _The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe_, when HE was a little boy. And him and a girl called Polly got into a wood that could take them into all kinds of other worlds. And I'm at the part," he paused for breath, "I'm at the part where they're in a world called Charn, and the professor, his real name's Digory Kirke, Digory just rung a bell and he woke up a lady who was sleeping like a statue. And you want to know something?" He asked, eyes dancing with excitement.

Callie peered down at him, as if he was about to disclose the secrets of life, the universe, and everything. "What?" she asked eagerly.

"I bet, I bet the lady turns out to be the White Witch from _The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe_." He said, with a satisfied smile.

Cal tousled the hair at the back of his head. "Maybe I'll read it when you finish." She sobered. "Aunt Bronwen and I need to talk about a few things. Have you met Tim, yet?"

Jaime pointed. "You're Tim?" he asked.

Tim Drake nodded.

"Ok, we've met."

"Good. Tim," she beckoned, "could you show someplace quiet, where he can read, and Bron and I won't disturb him."

"No problem. C'mon kid."

"I'm not 'kid,' I'm Jaime," he protested. "Or 'Kid-_O_' sometimes. But not 'kid.'"

Before Tim could respond Callie broke in. "Jaime," she said seriously. "This isn't our house. It's big, and very easy to get lost in. And I don't know my way around it all that well."

"You mean," he asked, grinning, "this is a very strange house, and even you know very little about it?"

"There are no wardrobes leading into Narnia, here," she replied crisply. "I know that much. Also, there was a big accident in one of the rooms and there's a lot of glass on the floor, and broken wood. You don't need to get cuts or splinters. So, don't go exploring, and don't go opening any closed doors."

"'Kay," he mumbled. "I hafta go to the bathroom."

Alfred smiled, slightly. "I believe that door may well be shut. Master Timothy?"

"I'll show him." He took Jaime's hand in his and led him down the hall.

Callie watched them leave. She peered into the carton. "How much did you bring?" she asked.

"Six meals, a couple changes of clothes, the latest Logic Puzzles 'mag', and," she said, reaching in and pulling out a thick file folder which had been slipped vertically into the box, "the team's reports on last night's performance."

"I'll look at them later." She saw the small bag on the table. "What's that?"

Bronwen grimaced. "Two pieces of marzipan. One for him, and one for Mr. Wayne. Jaime's idea. He's going to want to bring it up to him, you know."

Callie was shaking her head. "Not the best idea, right now."

"I'll let him hear that from his intrepid leader. He played the '_mitzvah_' card on me. He wants to be _m'vaker choleh_."

"Actually, Doctor Aaronson," Alfred interrupted diffidently, "that might not be a bad notion."

Callie raised her eyebrows. "That's not what you said, this morning."

"I realize that. However, based on the small sample of his character that I've witnessed thus far, his presence might prove beneficial. Certainly, we're having worse luck."

"Oh, he's a charmer," Callie admitted. "You'll pardon, however, my reluctance to press him into service as a therapist three months before his seventh birthday."

"Callie!" Bron interrupted sharply, "let me ask you one question: if the setting were a hospital, and he wanted to visit with a patient, any patient, and maybe try to cheer him up, would you put that argument forward?"

Cal looked away.

"By your own admission, Mr. Wayne should be in a hospital—sorry Alfred, but it's true. This place seems to come equipped with the necessary machinery. Is it so terrible to include a volunteer?"

"He gets... intense... about things. He's still so young."

"Sounds familiar," Bronwen smiled. "He focuses. Most kids his age have a shorter attention span. Frankly, I like how he's turning out."

"Me too," Callie admitted. "I just want him to be a kid a little longer."

"He will be. Right now, well if you don't want him going upstairs, it's up to you, but are you sure you want to discourage him from thinking that way?"

"No. I just don't want him making the same kind of mistakes I made."

Bronwen raised an eyebrow. "You want him to make others? Ones you maybe won't know how to deal with? Sophie's doing a great job with raising him. You're enhancing her groundwork. He's human. Of course he's going to mess up. We all do. But the last thing you should be encouraging him to do is stop the car, just because the road's a little bumpy."

Callie smiled faintly. "And I suppose that, were I to point out that he shouldn't be driving for a number of years yet, you'd call me 'deliberately difficult' again, right?"

"Uh-huh. You know where I'm going with the analogies. You don't need to pick them apart, necessarily." She kissed her sister on the cheek. "Call me later. I'll see whether I can find out anything about Tabitha."

Callie flinched. She had almost forgotten about her youngest sister.

As Alfred escorted Bronwen to the front door, Tim returned to the kitchen with Jaime in tow. "He said he left something on the table," Tim explained.

Callie picked up the bag. "This?"

The younger boy broke into a large smile. "Yes! Can I take it up to the man?"

"The man has a name, you know."

"_Ima_ didn't say what it was."

"It's Mr. Wayne," she replied.

"Mis-ter Wayne," Jaime repeated, slowly.

"That's right. Tim, would you bring him upstairs?"

Tim frowned. "Are you sure?"

"No. But Alfred and Bronwen seem to think it might be a good thing." She bent down to eye level with her nephew. "Now, Jaime, Mr. Wayne might be sleeping. If he is, you just leave the bag on the table by his bed, and tiptoe out. Make sure you don't wake him up."

The boy's eyes widened. "I'd NEVER do that!" he exclaimed. "That's stealing!"

Tim glanced sharply at Callie. She stood up. "Waking someone up without his or her permission is considered a form of theft; he's right," she explained. "Basically it amounts to stealing sleep." It was incredible what Jaime's mind picked up, sometimes, she thought.

"Callie," Tim began. "I—do I have to go into the room with Jaime? Y- you saw before..."

Callie's eyes widened in comprehension. When Bruce had regained consciousness that morning, when he had understood the enormity of his defeat, Tim had taken it badly. It was hard to tell whether he was more upset by the fact that Bruce currently had no feeling from the waist down, or from Bruce's reaction to the news. In any event, Alfred had managed to get the teen to control himself until they moved the injured man back into the master bedroom. But then, Alfred had asked Bruce whether there was anything else he needed. Bruce's reply "No... just turn out the lights... and leave me... in the dark," had torn at her own heart. Tim had slowly walked out of the room, and run down the stairs, slightly ahead of his tears.

"You can wait outside for him," she said. "This time. Tomorrow, I want you to try going in. Work on psyching yourself up for it."

Tim nodded uncertainly. He motioned to Jaime to follow him out of the kitchen. Taking the paper bag with him, Jaime complied.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

_He sleeps fitfully, and his dreams are not pleasant, although they sometimes start out that way. He should know by now, thatthe pleasant oneswon't last, but in dreams, one forgets, and yet, perversely, one remembers some things more clearly when dreaming, than while awake. Some things. Other memories are confused, ostensibly unrelated, yet the subconscious can create parallels which the conscious mind oftentimes glosses over...  
_  
In this dream, it is night. He is safe. The film at the Majestic was incredible. He wonders how he could ever have thought that a movie had to be in color to be interesting. _The Mark of Zorro,_ with Tyrone Power changed all that. He walks between his parents, now running ahead, brandishing a stick he picked up somewhere, attacking lampposts with it. "Take that Captain Pasquale!"

He narrowly misses skewering a jogger, who sprints by with a large dog on a leash. The dog is well-trained. It doesn't even turn its head. The jogger, on the other hand, glares at him.

"Bruce!" His father calls sharply. "Come back here!"

He obeys, and his father takes the stick from him and throws it in the gutter. "You don't want to hurt anyone, do you son?" He says as they walk on. Young Bruce shakes his head. They turn into the alley. "Let's cut through here to the car."

"_I do not wish to hurt anyone either_," says a harsh voice with a harsher accent. It sounds vaguely Spanish, but different. Santa Prisca. The name of the country leaps into his mind unbidden. How can he know that? He's eight years old and he's never even _heard_ of Santa Prisca before. Somehow, though, he knows. "But I will," the voice continues."If the woman does not hand over her pearls, _now_!" And he waves the handgun to emphasize his point.

The dream always stops here, with the sounds of the two gunshots, with his parents falling to the pavement, with the blood... with the knowledge that his parents are gone, and that his life has been utterly, totally, destroyed, but now impossibly the scene has shifted to the manor. Does that mean that tonight, it is not a dream? That, perhaps, the murder was a dream, and that now he is awake and his parents are well and always has been?" Hesitantly, he pushes open the front door.

Alfred lies at his feet, bleeding from a scalp wound. No! "_I have left him alive_," says the voice, that same voice from Santa Prisca. "_It is not he I want. It is you_." And the figure steps forward from the shadows, half-again his height, heavier, bulkier, faster, stronger. Bruce wants to run, but his legs won't move. He looks down and sees that he is sitting on the floor. He can't move his legs! He can't even feel them. And the man-mountain is coming toward him, pumped with Venom, out for blood, his blood. And he... can't... move! No! NonononoNoNOOOOOOOOO! "_Noooo_!"

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Cold. Wet. On his forehead. Terrycloth. A... washcloth? Yes. His throat felt dry. "Al—Alfred?" But this didn't feel like Alfred. The cloth wasn't evenly folded. One end flapped over his eyes. It wasn't well wrung out, either, he realized as he felt a rivulet of water trickle past his temple, onto the pillow. Alfred was never that sloppy. Tim, maybe?

"No," said a soft light voice. A child's voice. What was a child doing here? "Just me."

He'd never felt this weak. It was an effort to even push the cloth back onto his forehead. He tried, though. As he did, a small hand took hold one end to help him. He grabbed the hand, and pulled its owner forward. Turning his head, he looked into a pair of large brown eyes, pupils wide in the dim light. Dark hair, an inch or so past his ears, with an embroidered hat of some kind, covering the entire crown of his head. "Who are you?"

"Jaime Cardozo."

That told him nothing. "What are you doing in here?"

"I..." he swallowed nervously, "I thought you might like some marzipan."

Bruce didn't know what he'd been expecting to hear, but that wasn't it. "What?"

"Marzipan. It's almond paste made to look like fruit. It's really good. See?" He pointed to the night table where a small replica of a pear reposed on a piece of waxed paper. "I got a piece for me, too."

Bruce frowned. "I know what marzipan is. What I want to know is what you're doing in here. How did you get into my home?"

Jaime stood unmoving. "Your doctor is my Aunt Callie," he said after a moment. My _Ima_'s busy so Aunt Callie has to look after me. And _Ima_ told me you weren't feeling well, and I know it's polite to bring something when you go to visit someone, and I like marzipan so..."

That was somewhat clearer. Somewhat. "You could have just left it with Alfred."

"I know. But I wanted to make sure you'd get it. Aunt Maybelle always says that sometimes, if she's alone with an open box of chocolates in the morning, well, in the afternoon, she's just alone. And the marzipan isn't even in a box; it's just wrapped in wax paper. And it's better than chocolate. It's not that I don't trust him, I just didn't want to take a chance."

Despite himself, Bruce felt his lips twitch. And, somehow, for a moment at least, he had been focused on something other than what Bane had did to him. That... had to be a good thing. "There's a chair over in the corner by the window," he said, after a moment's deliberation. Do you think you can move it over here, by the bed? It's on wh-rollers," he added.

Jaime looked at the chair. "I think so, Mr. Wayne."

"Do that. Then, you can sit down. If you want to." Belatedly, it occurred to him that the kid might not want to stay in the room with him. That maybe he had just wanted to deliver his gift and go down the hall to watch Sesame Street, or Pokemon, or whatever it was that little boys watched on weekday afternoons.

The boy, however, beamed at him and walked quickly to the chair. He pulled it slightly forward so that he could maneuver himself behind it, and then pushed it from the back. Unfortunately, he couldn't see where he was going, so the chair knocked gently against the bed. "Sorry, Mr. Wayne." He said. "I'm almost there."

"You're doing fine," he encouraged. "Oh, and Jaime?"

The boy succeeded in nudging the chair into place. He peered questioning around the back of it. "Yessir?"

"Call me Bruce."


	7. Chapter 6: Careful The Things You Say

Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later. 

A/N: Goju-Shorei systems encompass both weapons combat (cane, knife, and fan) and Karate.

A/N: 'Abba' is the Hebrew word for father.

**Chapter 6**

**Careful the Things You Say**

_Careful the things you say_

_Children will listen_

_Careful the things you do_

_Children will see—and learn_

--Stephen Sondheim, _Into the Woods_

_6:30 P.M._

Callie and Jaime finished the sandwiches Bronwen had sent over for supper. They had just completed the grace after meals when Alfred cleared his throat from the doorway. "You have company, Doctor." Callie sighed inwardly. 'Doctor' or 'Doctor Aaronson' was worse than 'Miss Callie.' She would have protested more strenuously, if she didn't feel the need to keep the older gentlemen on her side. At least Jaime seemed happy enough with 'young sir.' A moment later, the team filed in to the dining room. Bran, Jill, Bron, Maybelle, Natalie, and..."

"Ima!" Jaime exclaimed, running to the statuesque woman whose blond fall gleamed beneath a black beret. Sophia Aaronson-Cardozo stooped to embrace her son.

Callie raised her eyebrows. "You should have called first."

Brandon agreed. "Would have, but the phones are down."

Callie glanced at Alfred. "What?"

Alfred's surprise mirrored her own. He lifted the receiver of a telephone lying on a sideboard, and raised it to his ear. A moment later, he returned it to its cradle. "My apologies," he said, disturbed. "I shall arrange repairs directly."

Maybelle interrupted. "We tried your cell but this place is a dead zone."

Callie grimaced. "That's right. I should have remembered from last time. Bane must have—" She caught herself. "Sophie," she addressed her eldest sister, "Alfred will show you where the library is. Why don't you take Jaime there, and come back?" She turned to Alfred. "I'm sorry. Having a strategy and planning session here wasn't my idea. But as long as the team is assembled, we'll try to keep it short."

"Very good, Doctor." His tone implied that it was anything but 'good.' Having a meeting in Batman's dining room, about how to keep Bane from gaining full control of the city, with Batman incapacitated upstairs was not exactly a stellar display of sensitivity, Callie reflected dourly. This was going to be as brief as possible.

She waited for Sophia to return, before beginning. "People," she said as Sophie took her seat, "time's wasting. Just to confirm some of the thoughts that have been going through certain heads, there's no way to predict, when Batman will be out there again." Alfred turned to leave. "Alfred," Callie said, quickly, "please, stay. I'd rather know ahead of time if he'd have real objections to any course of action we resolve." Alfred acquiesced and pulled the door closed behind him.

"Or if?" Natalie asked, responding to Callie's earlier statement.

Callie frowned, but conceded the point. "Or if." Her sister's arm was in a sling, she noted with concern. She continued. "There is such a thing as confidentiality, so I'm not sharing details, but let's just say it's going to be weeks before he responds to the signal."

"So, if the signal goes up, do _we_ answer it?" This from Maybelle.

Cal hesitated. "I wouldn't make a point of it. If you happen to be in the neighborhood, then by all means, but do not, under any circumstances, get caught up in any discussion about Batman's condition."

Maybelle's head jerked up sharply. "We wouldn't—"

"Oh? If a cop asks you if you think Batman'll be out tomorrow, what's your reply?"

"No."

"Wrong. Bran?"

"Really couldn't say," Brandon answered immediately. "Our paths don't cross often."

"This is the first time you've responded to the signal." Callie countered, continuing to role-play.

"This is the first time we've been in the area, and the signal's been up more than forty-five minutes. If there's trouble, we'd like to help."

Callie nodded. "Better." She looked around. "Get it? Guard any information about his current condition more stringently than you would any of our own... skeletons." She continued. "Fear of running into Batman has been a major crime deterrent. If last night was any indication, I don't think any of us had any clue just how major. Somehow, despite his regular patrols, we've rarely had a slow night, ourselves, since we started up operations here. With Batman out of commission, our job's not going to get any easier. So. Starting tonight, no more solo missions. Once we're back to operating fully staffed, it's going to be teams of two minimum, three preferred. We do not engage any Arkham escapees, or any opposing force outnumbering us by a factor greater than three to one without requesting backup unless signaling or waiting for said backup would likely result in loss of life to ourselves or civilians."

She thought for a moment. "Example: hostage situation. Eight armed hostiles, twenty civilians. You still call for backup, but don't wait. Go in and do what you have to, because, situations like that turn violent in a heartbeat. If, on the other hand, you find a drug processing operation, two of you, fifteen of them, you do not go in without reinforcements. If there aren't any, you call the cops, withdraw and let them handle it." At Brandon's double take, she reminded him, "We're a helping hand, not their competition. If need be, you call on Oracle to bring in the JLA, the JSA, or the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. You do not engage the thugs." She looked around. "Everyone clear, or do you need more examples?"

Seven pairs of eyes looked back at her, comprehension palpable.

Callie smiled. "I shouldn't even ask." She sobered. "Next point of business. For those who haven't heard, Tabitha's disappeared. "Where, we don't know."

Bronwen grinned. "Actually, I've got some idea. The motive's a little foggy right now, but last night, she took a bus to Manhattan. It was an express, no stops, so we know she didn't get off sooner to throw us off the trail. No clue what she's doing there, and no guarantee she didn't buy another ticket somewhere else, of course..."

Alfred cleared his throat. Callie looked inquiringly at him. "You know why she would have gone there?"

"I can but speculate."

"Please."

"Some months ago, Master Bruce reported that Nightwing had assisted two of your sisters in defeating a... rather large number of miscreants."

Maybelle grinned. "Yep, that was Umbra and me." She chuckled. "Talk about outnumbered. I think it was twenty-five against two. Three, after he helped."

"I read the report," Callie replied. "Sorry, Alfred. Please, go on."

"Until recently, Nightwing was the leader of the Titans. And the Titans are based in New York City."

"And Nightwing was Robin," Callie stated.

"Indeed."

"So," Maybelle said, face hard, "on a night when the only thing keeping this city from going to hell is a lack of a sturdy enough hand-basket, one of our key players jaunts off to New York instead of trying to keep a lid on the pressure cooker?

"What?" she asked, when Jill glanced up sharply.

"Nothing, just trying to figure out how many metaphors you've managed to mangle in fifty words or less."

Brandon snickered.

Callie sighed. "I'll deal with Tabitha when she comes back." She glanced at Bronwen. "Thanks, good work."

"I aim to please."

"As far as boosting our profile goes," Callie continued, "don't go overboard. It's fine if they see you, but no mugging for the cameras, no press conferences. It's pretty much business as usual, just spending slightly less time in the shadows."

Phasma spoke up. "Would we want to consider a day shift?"

"I have been," Callie admitted. "If we go that route, though, it means running two skeleton shifts rather than one fully staffed. We get a member on the disabled list, it means throwing in a sleepy substitute. For now, I think it's best to keep that idea as a possibility for down the road, but let's leave it as it's always been, for the present. Questions?"

There were none.

She looked at Natalie. "How's the shoulder?"

Natalie touched the sling reflexively. "Feels fine, now. I think I'm good to go."

"I don't," Cal said flatly. "Those injuries can take weeks to heal."

"We don't have weeks," Natalie protested. "Besides, I always heal faster than the textbooks say I should."

"If Bran didn't reset you in time, you're looking at an average recovery time of six to twelve weeks. I'm not putting you back in the field, so fast." She thought for a moment. "This would fall more under Alison's area of expertise than mine. If she certifies you fit for duty, day after tomorrow, fine. Until then, you keep it in the sling, and you keep icing it."

"But—"

"Once Ali's back, I'll be out again, myself. For the next couple of nights, four of us, plus Robin and—"she raised enquiring eyebrows at Alfred "Azrael?" Alfred nodded confirmation. "Azrael," Callie continued, "will have to be enough." Natalie opened her mouth again to protest. "This isn't open for discussion. The sun rises in the east. You stay in. Period." She looked around. "Anything else?"

Silence.

Callie drew a deep breath. She looked around again. "Naiad and Spectrum will cover Tricorner. Phasma and Pathwarden take downtown. If you get a tip from Oracle, act on it."

Sophie cleared her throat. "I'm not ready."

"I've seen you work out. You're ready, you're just nervous. That's why I'm sticking you in Tricorner tonight. So far, it's been relatively quiet over there. Think of it as a field exercise." Her older sister nodded unhappily. "We're adjourned then." The team stood and turned to leave. "Maybelle," Callie called, "a moment in private."

The younger woman turned back, resigned, as the others trooped out. Alfred left with them. Callie waited for the door to close before speaking again. "I'm listening."

Maybelle stood at attention, arms straight by her sides. "I'm sorry. When he pulled the trigger, training took over. I retaliated."

Cal shook her head. "You blocking the bullet was training. You counterattacking that way, that was instinct." She held up a hand to still her sister's protest. "Instinct has its place. That place is not in the driver's seat. You don't have a lot of time to think, out there, but use what you have."

Maybelle nodded her acknowledgment, but persisted. "He shot at me once. He wasn't going to get a second chance."

Callie agreed. At her sister's surprised look, she continued. "He had one of Natalie's trank darts in his hand. It's a wonder he was able to pull the trigger once." Her eyes narrowed. "Also, that he was able to release his grip on the gun before the heat from your fireball incinerated him. Got a reason for that little display of grandstanding?"

Maybelle went chalk-white. "He had a rifle on Natalie. He fired it on me. All I could think was to make sure he couldn't use the thing again! I attacked the weapon, not the creep holding it!"

"And if he hadn't been able to drop that weapon, whether the fireball impacted the gun or the gunman would have been fairly academic, no? I'm still waiting to hear about the fiasco with the iceball," she added.

"I thought..." Funny. She couldn't remember what she had been thinking.

"No. If you'd been thinking, you'd have come up with something better." Callie sighed. "We both know you're too smart to act this dumb. "What's going on?"

"Nothing."

Callie cocked her head. "Nothing?"

Maybelle glowered. "Well, apart from having these fantastic abilities I don't dare use because they only make things worse. Is it grandstanding that I can put fifteen opponents out of commission before Bran takes down two?"

"No," Cal said slowly. "More like coasting. These abilities we have, these things we do, they're weapons. Important weapons in any arsenal, yes, but there's a danger in relying on any one thing too much. When was the last time you tried Goju-Shorei, or Kung Fu? That fan you keep tucked in your tunic belt isn't a fashion accessory, you know." She looked away. "As always, the issue is less whether you _can _do something, than whether you _should_. Cutting loose with fire and ice in an enclosed space with lots of breakables is, in general, not advisable."

"You can take off the kid gloves," Maybelle said sourly. "I'm not Jaime." She flinched as Callie turned a furious glare on her.

"No, you're not. At your level, you're expected to understand the ramifications of your actions, and judge accordingly. If you can't do that..."

"What?" Maybelle shot back. "You'll 'bench' me?" She snickered. "Boy, so far, we're down Kensai, Umbra, you—now you want to suspend me?"

The calmness of Callie's tone belied the rage in her eyes. "Believe me," she said quietly, "suspending you is the last thing I want to do. But if you performance remains at current levels, then yes, it will come to that. Keep coasting on your psi skills and pulling one grandstanding show after another and you'll be too much of a liability to the team for me to do otherwise." Her eyes bore steadily down on her sister, and it was the younger woman who looked away first.

Cal put a hand on her shoulder. "Think of this as a challenge." She slapped both hands onto her own hips and thrust her chin forward. "I dare you to get through tonight without grandstanding." In a more serious tone, she continued, "and I'm trusting you to watch out for Sophie. She has more skills than confidence right now."

Maybelle's eyes went flat. "And I'm the reverse, right?"

"No. But you act like it. So, please, stop. You're capable of so much more."

Maybelle was silent.

Callie sighed. Then she vanished. An instant later, she teleported back, holding her staff, helmet, and armguards. "Outside," she ordered.

"What?"

"The hedges out back are high enough that we won't be visible to road or neighbors. You can use fan, knife, and any martial arts you choose. I'll stick to staff-work. Right now, you want to pound me. I'm giving you a golden opportunity."

"What's in it for me?"

One corner of her mouth quirked upwards. "If you win, Brandon's undying gratitude. And, if anyone on the team finds a camera within five hundred yards of us, my eternal humiliation."

"What's in it for you?"

Callie shrugged. "I need a workout. Coming?"

Maybelle reached into her purse and withdrew an oriental silk fan. Swiftly, she tied her hair into a ponytail. "You're on!"

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Jaime closed _The Magician's Nephew_. He'd been right—the lady that Digory woke up in Charn _was_ the White Witch—or she was going to be. He looked around him. The room was bigger than Abba's study, but was filled with books, ceiling to floor, just like at home. Most of the volumes here, however, were in English, not Hebrew or Aramaic. Curious, he walked from bookcase to bookcase, reading the titles. One unit's shelves at his eye-level held books he'd already read, but these were hardcover, bound with leather, not cloth: _Adventures of Tom Sawyer_, _Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_, _The Prince and the Pauper_, _Pudd'nhead Wilson_. He lifted _Tom Sawyer_ off the shelf and leafed through it. Funny, the words seemed a lot harder, and there weren't as many pictures. He replaced it carefully. Next to the Twains, were three volumes of Donald J. Sobol's _Two-Minute Mysteries_, followed by a half-dozen familiar Encyclopedia Brown titles. These last were in softcover.

His aunts and uncle always told him that if he used his eyes and ears, he'd pick up a lot of things other people missed. The Sobol books were dog-eared, their bindings cracked in more than one place, he thought. That meant that they had been read often. Jaime's eyes lit up at the next shelf. Aunt Tabitha had told him that the_Alfred Hitchcock and the Three Investigators_ mysteries were out of print, but here were two shelves packed with them! Aunt Tabitha had found a few at a library discard sale, and Jaime was reading through them whenever he went to visit her. Yes! Here was the one he was more than halfway finished. He pulled the book off the shelf and, unable to find a chair his size, sat on the carpeted floor by a large window. In a moment he was caught up in the three boys' search for the tattooed man.

He so absorbed by the story, that it wasn't until he came to the epilogue that sounds from outside drew his attention. He looked down from the second floor. Aunt Callie and Aunt Maybelle were practicing below. Maybelle executed a series of leaps and rolls, now using her steel-edged fan to deflect a blow from Callie's staff, now darting in to slice at her sister's unprotected upper forearms. Callie's style was slower, steadier. She never seemed to hurry, and yet her staff always seemed to be in position to parry or thrust as needed. Shouts reached him from below.

"...Can't block me forever, Dragon Lady!"

"Your name isn't Morse, so stop _telegraphing_!"

"Make me."

"Aren't I?"

Watching the two, it occurred to Jaime, that while Aunt Maybelle was fighting to win, Aunt Callie was fighting not to beat, but to stop her younger sister. Her deliberate counters made Jaime think of a mountain. It could rain on a mountain for a long time, before the mountain wore down...

"Call that a defense, Sil?" Naiad taunted, as she feinted with the fan, and kicked her sister solidly in the kneecap. "Reminds me of Tchaikovsky's sixth—Pa-the-_ti_-que!"

Silver Dragon fell back but regained her footing almost immediately. Using her staff as a vaulting pole, she leaped behind her sister, and—as the younger girl turned around—picked up the staff again, and caught Naiad just below her ribcage. "More like Haydn's 94th in G. Surprise!"

"Oh, you are going to _pay_ for that one, Jolly Green. Just. You. Wait."

Jaime froze. What were they doing? The first rules Aunt Callie had drilled into him when she had started teaching him, the rules that she made him recite, at the beginning and end of each lesson, why were they breaking them now? He repeated them softly now. Rule one: code names in costume, street names in civvies. Rule two: GIGCY. Grandstanding is gonna cost you. Rule three: training is to be done it the training room, only. Rule four: no weapons practice outside the training room—EVER. No weapons fighting outside the training room unless you're in costume and in the field. Rule five: If you have to defend yourself out of costume, only use basic martial arts. So, why were she and Aunt Maybelle half in costume, using weapons outside the training room? And 'Sil' and 'Dragon Lady' sounded way too close to 'Silver Dragon.'

"_You'll always find out a lot more if you don't show you're interested_," Aunt Tabitha had told him once. "_Take it from someone who's been doing this since she was younger than you. People, even people who should know better, think that when you're a kid, you either don't understand, or don't care about what's going on around you. The minute you show them they're wrong, they'll clam up. Of course, if you can't ask questions, that means you'll need to work extra hard to put all the pieces together, but that's life_."

He remembered in the car, earlier, how Aunt Bronwen had shut off the radio, and how she had reacted when he had said he wanted to hear what was on the news...

"Hey!" Ima called out to her sisters, as she strode into view. She was in full costume, Jaime realized—mask and everything. And she was carrying a short spear, maybe a little taller than he was. Why wasn't she reminding them not to fight in the open? What if Tim saw, or Alfred? What if Bruce heard? "Is this a private party or can anyone join in?" What?

"Help Naiad," Callie grunted. "She needs it."

"Only because I can't do this the fun way," Naiad shot back.

Alfred crossed the lawn, setting a tray of glasses with a pitcher of water down on the picnic table. Jaime blinked. Alfred either didn't notice, or didn't care, what his aunts were up to. Something was very wrong.

Think. In his mind, he imagined Umbra standing next to a blackboard with a chalk-pointer. Slowly, his aunt wrote a word in block capitals at the top centre: SPECIFY. And underneath that, smaller, she wrote: What is wrong? What does it mean?

Jaime thought back. As memories surfaced, envisioned his aunt writing them down in the "what is wrong" column—just like she did for real, when she was teaching him.

One. Ima said Bruce was sick, but he looks more like he got hurt

Two. Aunt Callie is breaking her own rules

Three. Aunt Callie was wearing part of her costume when I got here. She changed later.

Four. Alfred doesn't care about the costumes or weapons.

Five. Every time the radio comes on, if it's about Batman, someone turns it off or changes the channel.

Another thought occurred to him.

Six. Aunt Callie just got to be a doctor last month. She doesn't even have an office, yet. How did Bruce know to call her?

There was something else... something bothering him that hadn't before... what... his eye fell on the nearly finished mystery novel. How had Jupiter Jones figured out that the villain was in disguise... hands! That was it. The bad guy had dressed up like an old man. The mask was perfect, but the hands hadn't had any wrinkles, or brown spots, or anything. Jaime looked down at his own hand. It might not be wrinkled, or old, but it wasn't smooth either. He had blisters and calluses from learning to hold—and use a staff and dagger properly. There were bruises on his knuckles, and one nasty purple one under his index fingernail from when he hadn't been able to move his fingers out of the way of Aunt Callie's staff. And Bruce... Bruce's hands were the same way! But if you got hands like that from training or fighting, then how—

He thought about the other column on his mental chalkboard: _What does it mean_?

Well, Ima could have gotten confused about hurt and sick. You needed a doctor for both after all. Maybe that one wasn't important. The next three points, when looked at together, seemed like they all meant the same thing: Alfred already knew about Psion Force. Maybe Tim, too. But how? And if Aunt Callie had been wearing part of her costume before, it meant that she must have come here in costume. Why would she do that? And why did nobody want him to know too much about Batman...

Somehow, he felt that he should know what was going on. It was like trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle with one or two missing pieces. Even without them, he should have a good idea of what the whole thing looked like. He thought he almost saw it, but it was as if there was a heavy door, blocking him from understanding. He was chipping away at that door, but it was taking too long.

Maybe Aunt Callie knew Bruce from before. Just because he'd never heard her mention him before didn't mean she never had. Bruce had seemed to know who she was, when Jaime had said she was his aunt. And the bit about the hands, well, his Ima, his aunts, his uncles, all had hands like that. Aunt Callie said was normal to have hands like that if you wore a costume, or if you were training to. But, Bruce was hurt all over. He said he couldn't remember how. Maybe his hands got hurt the same way? No. Just from keeping his eyes open when Alison or Aunt Callie was patching up the team, Jaime had learned to tell the difference between fresh bruises and old ones. Most of Bruce's were old. And you didn't get calluses from getting hurt—you got them when the blisters stopped hurting.

How else could you get calluses? Aunt Natalie said she had them on her fingers from learning to play guitar. He'd read somewhere a story about a boy growing up on a farm, who got them from doing his chores. But this wasn't a farm. Did Bruce play guitar? He could ask.

Maybe there was an easy answer—something obvious that he wasn't seeing. Probably if he just found one of his aunts, or Uncle Brandon, they'd explain it to him. He decided to go downstairs and look for somebody to ask.

Between the library and the staircase were a series of closed doors, which might lead to bedrooms. None were Bruce's—his was past the stairs, almost at the other end of the hallway. As Jaime passed the third door on the left, he noticed that it was partly open. Seated on a sofa, watching television, his back to the wall, was Tim. Jaime eased the door open further, and slipped noiselessly into the room. Ima didn't like him watching television—they didn't even own one. If Tim knew about that, he'd probably make him leave...

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Tim felt like a highway driver passing an accident on the shoulder of the road. At least he thought he did—he was thirteen—still too young even for a learner's permit. "You're watching GSN," came the voice of the announcer, "Gotham's own twenty-four hour news station. Now, here's Angie Lim." The camera focused on a petite Asian woman. "Good evening," she said. "GSN has received video footage taken by a spectator in Robinson Square last night." Behind her, a large screen sported a city map with the letters GSN superimposed on it. On cue, the map dissolved to show a tall building. From the angle of the video cam, its user had to be at ground level, probably somewhere at the opposite side of the square. Atop the edifice, a man, huge, squat, masked, held something aloft in both hands. No. Tim felt sick. Not something. Batman.

The camera hadn't picked up sound, so Angie Lim provided running commentary: "As you can see, Bane is hoisting Batman over his head, preparing to throw him," she said in the same tone as she might have used for "As you can see, a cold front moving in from the north will make the overnight low thirty degrees." Tim closed his eyes—and heard a choking noise behind him. He twisted around to see Jaime standing just inside, eyes wide, both hands cupped around his mouth.

Bane. The door barring Jaime's understanding blew to smithereens. Bane! Right before Ima had taken him up to the library, Aunt Callie had started to say that Bane had something to do with the phone not working. But why would Bane have come here in the first place, unless...

"What are you doing in here?" Tim asked, more harshly than he meant to. He'd told Callie he'd help watch the kid, but the last thing he felt like doing right now was listen to some first-grader prattle on about some book or other.

"I heard the TV," he said in a small voice. "And I know."

"You know." Tim said, not sure if he had heard right. And if he had, in fact, heard correctly, was he jumping to the right conclusion about what the kid knew?

"Yes." Jaime said. "So could you please tell Aunt Callie she doesn't have to pretend around me anymore? Just tell her..." He couldn't say it to Tim. What if he guessed wrong and Tim really didn't know? He couldn't think of anything else to say. "I know!" he said, and rushed out, kicking the door shut behind him.

He hadn't meant to slam it. He dashed down the hallway, bypassing the stairs. At Bruce's door, he stopped, and knocked gently, entering at Bruce's invitation to "come in."

Tim saw Jaime vanish into Bruce's room. He shook his head. He had to get Callie.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"Jaime!" Bruce smiled. His smile faded when the boy entered the room silently, climbed into the chair he had moved by the bed, and sat, unsmiling, eyes shut tightly, both hands grasping the armrests. It was something of a stretch, literally, for Jaime to grip both armrests at once, and would have looked comical, were it not for the fact that the boy was plainly agitated. "What's the matter?"

He opened his eyes then. "I think I found something out just now. If I'm wrong, you'll laugh at me. But I don't think I am."

Bruce looked at him. "I don't... laugh... often." He said.

Jaime went on as if he hadn't heard. "But if I'm right, I think you'll be mad at me. And that'll be worse."

Whatever his secret was, it was clearly weighing heavily on the boy. Bruce knew what that felt like. "I won't get mad," he replied.

"How do you know?" Jaime implored. "You don't even know what I'm going to say."

Bruce struggled through the fading painkillers to frame a reply. He was off the respirator, now, at least. "You're right," he admitted. "I don't _know_. But I think I have an idea about what it's like to want to tell someone something important, and know that once you do, you can't... take it back. I know that can be... frightening." Vicki. If he had trusted her with his secret, would they be together, now? Or would she have run, even faster, unable to deal with the ramifications? Letting her go had been for the best. At least, he kept telling himself so. "It's not... a good feeling."

Jaime nodded agreement. "No." He closed his eyes again, thinking. A moment later, he opened them, nodded again, and drew a deep breath. "I think Aunt Callie's afraid that if you know what I found out, you'll think she told me. She didn't." He thought for a moment. Actually, she kind of had, hadn't she? "Well, she didn't mean to. She told me, when I was little, that she wanted to be a doctor for people who..." his forehead creased in concentration, "who it would be worse for them if they went to a hospital than if they didn't, even if they were real sick or hurt real bad. You know the kind of people I mean?"

Bruce's expression froze. "Go on," he said, ignoring the question.

"She's only just a real doctor, now. I _know_ she's a great one, but out of the family, I don't think she's famous, yet. But she came here, and you're letting her help you. But don't you have another doctor, from before?"

Bruce didn't answer. Partly, he was stunned by the turn the conversation was taking. It may have been the medications in his system. Partly, he had to admit to himself, at least, that he was impressed by the boy's reasoning. Jaime continued, explaining about the phones being out, and Callie's... slip. There was no other word Bruce would use to describe it. That had been a costly one. It probably would have gone right past most boys Jaime's age, Bruce realized, and even most of those a few years older. But Jaime had caught it.

"I can't tell you the rest of it," Jaime continued. "Because, if I'm wrong, and you're going to laugh, I think I'll be telling you things I'm not supposed to talk about outside the family. But I think that the reason my Aunt Callie is your doctor is because you won't go to a hospital. And I don't think you can because..."

Bruce regarded him solemnly for a moment. "Jaime," he said gently, "if you have something to say, say it." He reached a hand out to the boy.

Jaime took it between both of his, and turned it over gently, looking again at the bruises and the calluses. Would his own hands look like that when he was as old as Bruce? "I think you're Batman."

Bruce pulled his hand out of Jaime's, and lifted it. The boy flinched as Bruce brought it down lightly on his shoulder. Bruce winced. Was this what it came down to? Terrifying the very people... the very children... that he wanted to protect the most. It would be so easy to do what Jaime was dreading. Laugh the whole thing off, come up with some other plausible explanation for everything the boy had observed, Jaime would feel a little embarrassed around him for a while, but he would come around. Except... it was a relief to actually have this out in the open. And... Psion Force already knew who he was. If he disavowed the facts now, and Jaime learned, or guessed at some later date, Bruce's denial of the truth now would make matters worse. What should be harder, he thought to himself, to do the detective work and present the facts to somebody who you knew probably wouldn't want to hear them, or just to confirm the hypothesis? And, when all was said and done, when Jaime had figured it out, he hadn't run to his aunt to crow over his discovery—no, Jaime had come to him. He squeezed the boy's shoulder briefly.

"Well done," he said.

Jaime looked up, incredulous. "I'm right?"

"You are," Bruce confirmed.

"For real? For real, I'm right?"

"Yes."

A muffled gasp from the doorway caused them both to turn their heads. Tim, Natalie, and Callie, stood looking in. Natalie rested her forehead against the doorframe, a goofy smile on her face. "I suppose," Callie said in consternation, "that one of the chief risks in teaching deductive reasoning to children is their tendency to apply said reasoning in circumstances that one truly wishes... that they would not. I'm sorry, Bruce.

"This isn't funny, Natalie!" she snapped as the younger girl guffawed loudly.

"Oh... yes... it... is!" Natalie gasped, between chuckles. "Yes... it... is!" She drew a deep breath. "Tim comes running downstairs in a panic that he somehow let the ca—I mean BAT out of the bag by turning on the TV while you—"she pointed at Callie "you—oh, this is just tooooo... much. Cal, you are NEVER going to live this one down. Not ever!"

Tim was smiling, Jaime was grinning. Bruce and Callie exchanged a glance. Later, neither would remember which of the two had said "she's right," and which had laughed first. Not that the order really mattered.


	8. Chapter 7: Truth and Consequences

Disclaimer: See previous chapters. "Why Haven't I Heard From You" Copyright 1994 by Bash Music. Recorded by Reba McIntyre from her album _Read My Mind_.

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later. 

**Chapter 7**

**Truth and Consequences**

"Is this alright for you?" Dick asks. "Being alone in a car with a man who is 'neither your husband nor a close relative?'"

I nod. "As long as you don't turn off on any deserted side roads." I like the car. It's a midnight blue four-door that almost makes me think of one of those hover cars they used to show on after-school cartoons whenever they did an episode where the protagonists (I will _not_ call them heroes if they're too stupid to listen when their zany uncle tells them not to touch anything in his lab), get zapped into the future. For all I know, they still show cartoons like that—we got rid of the TV about eight years ago. I used to go over to a friend's house to watch, but since we moved to the Mooney area, most of the people around us not only don't have TV, they've _never_ had TV.

It's taken us a little longer to get underway than either of us would have liked. The sky is starting to get lighter.

Anyway, getting back to the car, the... Nightmobile? (Oh, no way I'm going to ask him if that's what he calls it.) The chassis is so low that the car looks like it's gliding—not rolling on the pavement, and it's quiet. The motor doesn't rev, it _hums_. It still smells like "new car", even though he's been driving this one or its double since the last time I saw him, months ago. If I sit in here too long, it'll spoil me for riding my motorcycle.

_Who is rich? One who is content with what he has. _Pirkei Avot, again. One who is strong is one who controls himself. One who is honored is one who honors others. I remember discussing those lines in class. It doesn't actually mean that you shouldn't want something better than what you've got, it means that whatever you have is what you need. It beats 'keeping up with the Joneses.'

"You're quiet," he says, as we drive over the George Washington Bridge. There are pink clouds in the sky—the sun is almost up. I'm not usually out this early. Or should that be, 'I'm not usually out this late'?

"So are you," I counter. "My one time in the cave, Batman let me go about three hours before he said something to me. I thought maybe that was typical for you guys."

He frowns. "Don't lump us together," he says. "We're _not _alike."

"I never said you were. But, if he raised you, it's normal to expect there'd be some similarities." You know, wearing costumes and masks, having a secret identity, fighting crime with_out_ a badge number...

"Like with you and, what's-her-name? Silver Dragon?" Well at least he sounds curious, not sarcastic.

I think for a minute. "She's strong, smart, dedicated, super-responsible, and a born leader." I let my temper get away from me on that rooftop. So much for strong. I ran off to a strange city to find someone I barely know to tell him that something bad _might_ have happened to someone he cares about. It's not like I waited around long enough to find out whether the report was exaggerated or anything. Final analysis: not the smartest course of action. Dedicated and super-responsible? Yeah, right. The team—the _city_ needed, likely still needs me, while I super-_ir_responsibly raced off to the nearest bus station. Born leader? How would I know? When you're the baby of the team, who gives you a chance? Oh, honestly, it's time to stop with the lame excuses. Simple question: would _I_ follow someone I couldn't depend on? "You win," I tell him. "Sil and I are pretty different."

We're both in street clothes. He's in jeans and a T-Shirt. I've got on a cotton button-down over a denim skirt. My hair is still in braids, which makes me look about fifteen or so, instead of nineteen. Some day, I'll change it, or cut it, or something. I pull down the passenger mirror and pull the braids back behind me, holding them so they're hiding behind my neck. Ugh. From the neck up, I look like a little boy. Not the image I want to convey. Guess I've got my answer to what I was wondering—if this really was a 'Nightmobile' we wouldn't be wearing street clothes in it. This is just a really incredible car. I realize Dick's just asked me something. "Sorry?"

"I asked why you do this."

"What, the moonlighting?" At his nod, I shrug. "I'm a brat. Born, Reared, And Trapped into this line of work." And obviously, still not quite a team player. "You?"

He thinks for a minute. "Rat. Born in a circus. My parents were acrobats. So was I."

That explains a few things about his fighting style. Bronwen used to dance. Ballet. She was almost good enough to go professional. I think some of that translated into her attack moves. Nightwing's similar but better, light-years better—really fast on his feet. And, if you really want to oversimplify, acrobatics are sort of like dancing in the air. To him I say, "Well, if you want to get technical, I wasn't actually born to this kind of life. It's close, though. My psi-powers manifested when I was three. I was in a costume from the time I was five." My fault, not Callie's for that one. She did _try_ to keep me in civvies for longer. Of course, I wanted to do the fun stuff faster.

"Your parents never found out."

I blink "I thought you knew," I say. "My father died in North Africa before I was born. My mother walked out on seven kids, me included, when I was six weeks old."

Guess Bruce left that bit out of whatever he told Dick. It's one of the parts of my past that I really don't have any strong feelings about. Sure, sometimes I miss the _concept_ of parents, but it's hard to get all weepy and mushy about a couple of people you have absolutely no memory of. Not that I didn't put Callie through heck over it, growing up. There was a point when every order, request, demand, or suggestion she'd throw my way would be greeted with "I don't have to—you're not my mother!" Or, even better, "my _mother_ wouldn't make me..." go ahead and fill in the blank with the task of your choice.

Thinking back on it now, it makes me cringe. Because, all that time, Callie could have come back with the ultimate retort: "Exactly. Your mother walked out on you because she couldn't put up with you. So far, I haven't." And that would have shut me up and bundled me off on a slow guilt trip. Only she never did. Not once. No matter how easy a volley it was to return. No matter how much I must have hurt her. So when I finally figured it out for myself, it was like all that guilt was sitting there, waiting for me to discover it. It hit me like a ton of feathers (why does it always have to be bricks? A ton is a ton, after all.) I've spent the last nine years trying to make it up to Callie. Taking the last four days—five days, now into consideration, I think I've blown it. "Batman... doesn't like the unexpected, does he?"

Dick looks at me sharply. "Hates it. Sometimes I think he became the world's greatest detective, just so he could deduce when someone was planning to throw him a surprise party and not show up."

I sigh. "I...didn't tell anyone where I was going. Chances are, your turning up at the manor won't be... expected."

He thinks that over for a minute. Then he glances at me. He looks back quickly at the road, but I get the feeling that if he weren't so anxious to get back to Gotham, he'd pull over to the side of the highway, right now. "You mean to tell me," he says in a voice that seems much too calm, "that your family has _no_ _idea_ where you are, right now?"

"Well, I did leave a message, when I called before." That sounds pitiful, and we both know it. When I phoned home from Dick's apartment, I got the call answer service on Bronwen's cell-phone. She must have the number on forward. I didn't try the other line. I didn't especially want to call the first one, either. Truthfully, it was a relief to get the recording. Recordings don't yell at you or demand explanations. My own cell's mailbox is probably full. I've had it switched off since the bus pulled out of the Gotham terminal.

Dick ignores me. "You've been out of Gotham City for more than four days, without a word or a note to _anyone_?"

"Oracle knew. How do you think I got your address?" But, as far as I know, the first time Oracle had any dealings with the rest of the team was last Sunday night, when she patched Callie through to Alfred. I'm the only Psion Force-er who knows how to contact her. And believe me, her e-mail address and phone number are not things which I leave lying around unprotected by encryption and three to five password levels.

"More than four days. I can't believe—you're how old? Sixteen?"

"Nineteen!" I think my voice went up a couple of octaves. I think my credibility went down a couple of points.

He groans in disgust. "Nineteen. Your family must be worried sick. And if this 'Bane' dropped Br-Batman in a crowd, the city must be—with the way you can fight... with what you can do ..." he glowers at me. This time, I shudder. "You're just lucky you're not one of _my_ teammates." He turns back to the road. "After fourteen years on a team, don't you think you owe the common courtesy to let your people know when you're leaving them in the lurch? Don't you know better..."

I don't wait to hear the rest. Without any conscious decision, I phase myself out of the car. Rather, I phase myself, and let the car continue on without me. I let myself drift to the ground, changing course just enough to veer toward the shoulder of the road. Once there, I partially solidify, and float a zigzag course to bleed off my momentum. Inertia keeps me moving for what feels like miles. If I'd just stayed phased, I'd have kept moving at whatever velocity the car was going until I lost concentration and had to solidify. If I had fully solidified, my momentum would probably have put a me-shaped hole in whatever I finally hit. Remember the Bugs Bunny cartoons? Think about it. One hundred ten pounds of teenager, hurtling at about ninety miles per, without a car or seatbelt. It probably would have been safer for me to just open the door, and jump out while the engine was running.

I pick myself up from the gravel, and brush myself off. The clothes are more than a little dusty, but they're wash-and-wear. One sleeve button got torn off, there are new holes in the elbows, and my arms are both a little scraped. There's a run in my tights, too. On the whole, though, I think I got off pretty easy. Good thing for me there aren't too many cars on the road, either. I'm not invisible when I phase. The sight of me in the middle of the highway would almost definitely spook other drivers, and probably cause a few accidents.

It looks like I have a long walk ahead of me. It's Friday. _Shabbes_ tonight. No way I'll make it back to Gotham in time. Okay, so I have to find a town with a synagogue and a kosher take-out place by nightfall. That's more than twelve hours away. No problem. Then it hits me. Problem. Everything I brought with me, costume, clean clothes, the muffins I grabbed from B & H Vegetarian Restaurant yesterday afternoon, it's all in the car. My purse. It should be around here, somewhere... Now where... in the front seat of the Nightmobile, sitting in front of where my toes were, that's where. Arrh! I want to scream. I don't know where I am, or whether this highway goes direct to Gotham or if I have to turn off somewhere, I'm broke, and when the sun gets higher, and I have to worry about dehydration, I'm not going to have seventy-five cents on me to buy a bottle of water. How? How can I be so... together... when I'm on the town, or covering my tracks, or having a combat workout against the rest of the team, and still mess up on something as basic as remembering not to let everything I need speed away from me at one hundred miles per hour! Why did I phase out in the first place, anyway? It's not like anything Dick was saying was precisely a new concept. Arrh! If it would accomplish anything, I'd kick myself.

Slow down. What's done is done. You've still got your health, and you've still got your head—even if that last is only because it's conveniently attached to your neck. And, as much as the team probably wants it on a plate, right now, they're not going to leave you stranded if there's anything they can do about it. Follow the highway. Sooner or later, you're going to hit either a restaurant or a gas station. You'll find a payphone at either. Call home collect. Take your lumps, like the adult you pretend to be. Face it. You messed up. There are going to be consequences. The more you try to postpone them, the worse it's going to get. You figured that out the first time Callie read you _The Story about Ping_, as a bedtime story.

I start moving. After about a half hour, I see a car pulled over on the shoulder. The passenger door is open, but there's nobody outside, fussing with the hood or tires. Midnight Blue. Hold on; I know that car.

"Get in," Dick says. I look left and right, checking if there's anyone else he means. One corner of his mouth quirks up. That's familiar from somewhere. His eyes are smiling, too. That's not. "I mean you. Come on, time's wasting." I hesitate. He sighs. "I'm not going to bite," he says.

I close the door behind me. Before he can start the engine, I phase through the front seat and grab the bag from B & H. Thinking about not having the food made me hungrier than it should have. I pull out a carrot muffin, and jerk the bag in Dick's direction as he turns the motor. "Want?"

"No thanks. I seem to recall someone force-feeding me cheesecake a couple of hours ago."

Right. "Sorry. When I'm stressed, I eat."

"Yeah, but you don't wear spandex tights." I snicker. He does have a point. We pass the exit for Passaic. One of my friends from high school moved there after graduation. There's definitely an Orthodox community. I take note for next time. _Next_ time?

"I'm worried about him," he says a few minutes later.

"Me too." And yet, he stopped to wait for me. That, as Bronwen would say, is something. I reach into my purse and pull out my cell-phone. It's doubtful that they'd leave a message about Batman for me that way. Still, it's all I've got. Twenty-five messages. My mailbox is full. Surprise, surprise. Most of them are variations on 'where in the heck are you?' My family is pretty creative. Some of the messages are in Morse code, fifth variant, and pig Latin. Well, if they were really furious, there'd just be an empty mailbox. If they're keeping the communication lines open, it's a good sign. I hope. I actually laugh when I get to message number twenty-one. That one has to be from Jill. She's the only one who'd put Reba McIntyre in my voicemail:

_...Well there's no problem gettin' to me_

_Baby you can dial direct_

_I got call forwarding and call waiting_

_You can even call collect_

_The service man he told me that my phone is working fine_

_And I've come to the conclusion trouble isn't with my line_

_I'm sure the operator will be glad to put you through_

_So dial zero for assistance_

_IF THIS ALL CONFUSES YOU!_

_So tell me why, haven't I heard from you_

_Tell me why, haven't I heard from you..._

Ouch. That's pointed. Deserved, but pointed. Dick sees me smiling. "Good news?"

Stupid, of course he was watching. There I go, building up his hopes. I apologize and explain.

"This Phasma sounds like someone I might enjoy meeting."

"She's great," I say sincerely. "Best sister-in-law I could ask for."

"Oh, so she and Pathwarden..."

I nod. "It'll be two years at the end of July." Two older married siblings. Jill had a crush on my brother since she was ten and he was fourteen. When he left the team and spent four years on the road, they kept in contact. Admittedly, a lot of that was probably because he didn't want to risk connecting with Callie. For most of the time he was away, well, let's just say that bringing up my brother's name in casual conversation with Cal was up there with petting a cobra, and jumping off the CN tower without a parachute on a list of 'things to do in Toronto when you've got a death wish.' Toronto's where we lived, before we moved to Gotham when I was eleven. Bran came back about a month or so before we closed up the apartment.

Anyway, getting back off my tangent, it wasn't until Jill turned eighteen that my brother woke up and realized that she hadn't been the "little kid with the braided barrettes" in a very long time. I don't think they really dated, our time is fairly limited in that regard, but at night, we often work in teams of two or more. My guess would be that during slower moments when they were paired together, they probably found non-work-related topics to discuss. It was almost four years before they made it official. The wedding was three months later.

I realize Dick's waiting for me to reply to something. "Sorry, I zoned out. What?"

He sighs. "I was trying to apologize."

I try to think. "For?"

"For? For blasting you when we crossed into New Jersey."

Now I'm confused. I messed up. I acted like the thoughtless flighty adolescent I never had a chance to be. Why should he apologize for handing me the heck I deserve? Sure, it got me angry. That's not the point. I shouldn't have rabbitted. "Look," I say, "everything you told me was right. Okay? My family needed me in Gotham. I should have waited for things to settle down before trying to find you." I wasted more than four days just waiting for him to get back from Brazil. "Or you would have gotten a call from Robin, or—"does he know her as 'Green', 'Barbara', or 'Oracle'? "...Or you would have called up the mutual friend who left you that last message on your machine. My coming out to find you wasn't necessary. Silver Dragon's going to phrase it a little differently, but she'll end up telling me the same thing. And what's going to make it worse," I say, realizing for the first time that this isn't just accurate, it's _true_, "is that you were right about something else you said, too." I take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "I _do_ know better."

Dick doesn't say anything for a while. He slides a box of tissues over to me, but I shake my head. I'm not about to cry. After we pass what's probably the fifth farm that has cows grazing right up near the road, he finally opens his mouth. "Your execution was lousy, not your idea. I think... what you had to tell me, I think it's better you told me face to face. Thanks." Fine, it looks like my hunch was right on that score, at least. I finish my muffin. There are a few more in the bag, but spandex tights or not, I probably shouldn't take another one just yet. The closest I've had to a decent workout since arriving in Manhattan was beating up Bluto, and he was too smashed to put up any real defense.

"So," he continues, sounding slightly more cheerful, "you said a 'mutual friend.'"

I nod, and wait for him to continue. He doesn't. That's when it hits me. We're both trying to figure out if we're giving anything away by mentioning her name, because I don't know if he calls her 'Barbara' _or_ 'Oracle', and he doesn't know if I know she's 'Oracle' but don't know about 'Barbara', or vice versa. I don't know if he knows them both but doesn't realize they're the same person, and he's probably wondering the same about me, and neither of us wants to give anything away... "Gee, these secret identities are a pain sometimes, aren't they?" I ask brightly.

He chuckles. "Sometimes a voice can sound different on the phone," he says, finally. "The person who left me that message she and I go back a long time. Her name's Barbara."

I nod. "The commissioner's daughter. That's who I thought it was."


	9. Chapter 8: Cold Hard Truths

Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later. 

**Chapter 8**

**Cold Hard Truths**

A/N: Preparations for the Jewish holiday of Passover, or _Pesach_ involve thorough cleaning of kitchen appliances, food storage compartments and food preparation surfaces, as well as the use of separate dishes and utensils. Some households have a special kitchen set aside only for use during this holiday. A similar cleaning process is required to prepare a previously non-kosher kitchen, before kosher food may be cooked in it.

_Thursday, 10:35 a.m._

"This way, please, doctor." Alfred led the woman toward the master bedroom. Doctor Alison Perkal-Steiner followed the elderly man up the stairs.

"I came direct from the airport," she remarked, hefting her medical bag. "Sorry I couldn't be here sooner, but at least it's nice to know I've got backup, these days."

"Such as I am," Callie emerged from the room, expression somber. At Alfred's questioning look, she took Alison's shirtsleeve and steered her colleague down the hall, beckoning to Alfred to follow. At the entrance to the library, she paused. "Does he have any means of hearing us from the bedroom if we speak in there?" She asked. "Bugs, air vents, or the like?"

"I think not, Doctor."

Cal sighed. "I'm not going to win this one, am I, Mr. Pennyworth?" she asked wearily.

"I... beg your pardon?"

Callie blinked, then smiled her realization. "Oh! No, I didn't mean _him_. Sorry, I can't believe I said that. No, it's just," she sighed. "I've had my medical diploma all of thirty-two days. It doesn't feel right, yet, being called 'doctor'. And no matter how often you refer to me as such, when I'm here, I still feel like the indecisive first-year who froze when her teammate came off second-best in a quarrel with a wrecking ball. For now, Alfred, I would really take it as a kindness if you could _please_ call me 'Callie.' If you must, call me 'Callantha'. I'm getting used to too many things right now to have to cope with a new mode of address on top of the rest of the pile.

"I shall endeavor to do so, Doctor... Callie."

Cal nodded her thanks, and pushed the levered door handle. It swung open. Jaime was sitting on the floor by the window reading _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_. He jumped up as the three adults entered.

"Can I go in and see Bruce, now?" he asked eagerly.

Callie and Alfred exchanged glances. The butler's hunch had been correct. Over the course of the last few days, a friendship had solidified between the wounded man and the young boy. Jaime's discovery had, if anything, eased the process. Bruce had always, first out of necessity, and later, out of habit, maintained a certain distance. Initially, Alfred had assumed that such reserve was for fear that he might inadvertently let slip something that would reveal himself as Batman. Even with those who were aware of his double life, he had never completely relaxed his guard. Later, Alfred had realized that there was another reason.

Bruce had constructed his emotional barriers almost reflexively, to try to keep himself from caring too deeply about the youngsters he had mentored—the youngsters who cared enough to endanger their lives for Batman, and for Batman's cause. It hadn't worked, of course. In the past, as Robin, Dick had been kidnapped, held hostage, knocked unconscious, concussed, half-drowned, bruised, and battered on numerous occasions. It had taken, of all things, a minor bullet wound to pierce Bruce's walls. And he had let the torrent of pent-up fears sweep Dick as far away from him as possible, forbidding him to wear the Robin costume, all but banishing the boy from his home and from his heart for over a year.

Jason. Had Bruce adopted Jason Todd, not only out of loneliness, but also knowing that such an act, so soon after banning Dick from wearing the costume, would push the older boy even farther away? In hindsight, it looked likely. And then, Bruce had set Dick up in young Jason's eyes as a paragon—a standard to which the boy could aspire but never hope to attain. How many times, Alfred reflected, had he come down the cold stone steps, to hear some version of "Bruce, didja see that? I took that obstacle course in two minutes-fourteen seconds! That's my best time yet!"

That would inevitably be followed by, "The first time the original Robin tried that course, his time was one minute fifty-seven. When he'd been at it as long as you were, he had it down to one-thirty-four." And then, Bruce would do one of three things: he would order the boy to redo the exercise, order the boy to try a different exercise, and again compare him unfavorably with Dick, or simply turn his back on the sputtering teen.

If his goal had been to keep himself from growing too attached to the boy, Bruce had not been successful. If his goal had been to push Jason to excel, to the point where he would be prepared to take on the deadliest of villains without hesitation... Alfred groaned inwardly. It might have been Joker, whohad killed the boy, but Alfred knew that Bruce blamed mainly himself. He had shut himself down, after the Joker had escaped him. Alfred suspected that more had happened, but Bruce had refused to divulge any further details, save something muttered under his breath about 'interfering aliens'. And Alfred had watched Bruce sink from bad to worse, growing colder and angrier with each passing week, until Tim had entered on the scene—to start the whole program over again.

So far, Tim had seemed to accept the situation better than his predecessors—Batman and Robin were partners, comrades-in-arms, but not friends. Batman could not allow himself many friends. It was difficult enough for him to accept that he had allies who were willing hurl themselves into danger for him. So, when Bane and Batman had first encountered one another, that night in the warehouse, and Bane had bluntly stated his intention to destroy Batman and rule Gotham, when Bane had calmly and cold-bloodedly set out to accomplish his goal by setting villain after villain against the Dark Knight, Batman had kept Tim out of the action as much as possible. He had refused to consider calling in Nightwing, or his colleagues in the JLA. If nothing else, the recent death of Superman should have convinced him that none of them, no matter how resourceful, or... gifted, were immortal. It hadn't. After Tim had taken up the mantle of Robin, Alfred had hoped that Bruce had realized how close to the abyss he had come, after the death of Jason. Until Bane had destroyed Arkham, Alfred had almost become convinced that Bruce had learned from the past. But then he had set Robin primarily to doing research in the cave, or grudgingly allowed the boy to accompany him in the car, but ordered him to remain on the sidelines whenever any actual fighting became necessary.

Jaime, on the other hand, Alfred reflected. Jaime had _no_ designs whatsoever on the Robin costume. He had discerned Bruce's secret—no mean feat in itself, but having never met Batman before, had no preconceived ideas regarding his personality. It is, Alfred mused, considerably easier for one to act hard and cold, if one is already half-expected to behave in such a manner. Jaime had no such expectations. Perhaps that, combined with the knowledge that Bruce was not being asked to train yet another young warrior (Callie had judiciously advised Jaime not to mention that he was receiving training from another source, unless he was specifically asked), and the boy's nascent detective skills, had contributed to the growing camaraderie between man and boy.

"It's fine with me," Callie said carefully. "Alfred?"

Alfred blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Callie looked concerned. "I was just saying that if Bruce doesn't mind, it's fine if Jaime goes to visit with him. If that's okay with you, I mean."

"By all means," he agreed.

"Alfred," Callie asked, "when did you sleep last?"

"I might ask the same of you."

Alison turned toward the younger woman, expectantly. Cal looked down, ruefully. "Touché. I've been averaging five hours. Thanks for coming, Ali. Before I take you in to see him, let me just bring you up to speed. Alfred knows all this, already—we patched him up together. He's here in case you have any questions I can't answer."

"Understood. Hit me."

Callie drew a deep breath and launched into a description of the injuries Bruce had suffered, beginning with the most serious. "He suffered a fulcrum stress fracture at L-4 and L-5. Treatment included Decadron and telekinetic immobilization..."

"Telekinetic..." Alfred interrupted. This was news to him.

Callie blushed. "Now you know one of the reasons I didn't sleep for the first two days. It was necessary to maintain constant concentration, at least, initially. I didn't want to say anything because there was no guarantee it would make a difference. I think it has, though. The bones are already showing signs of healing, but the real question is whether the nerves will as well. In addition to the spinal fracture, Mr. Wayne suffered a collapsed lung..." she continued quickly, listing internal injuries, broken bones and other incidentals.

Alison had remained silent throughout the monologue. Now she posed several questions couched in medical jargon. Alfred's background allowed him to understand most of it, but apparently more was being communicated under the surface. Finally, Alison looked up, expression hard. "If the folks didn't already know what Jill does with her nights, I'd tell them in the hopes they could talk some sense into her. City's just gotten a lot more dangerous after dark."

"We're taking precautions," Cal said mildly.

Alison snorted. "And I suppose _he_ didn't?" She looked away. "Sorry. You've been practicing for this type of work for sixteen years; I'll have to trust you know what you're doing. Medically you certainly do, I would've made the same calls you two have," she added. "So, before we get you testing your theory in concert with Sophie, Mayb, Natalie, and Tabitha, do you think I might get to meet the patient?"

Callie smiled. "I'll take you in to see him, now. C'mon, let's see if we can unpry Jaime." She reached for the door, which swung open before she could grasp the handle. Bruce, seated rigidly upright wheeled himself through, towing Jaime after him. Brandon had once asked idly if Batman could be half as scary without a mask. The answer, now confirmed, was an emphatic 'yes.' Fiery blue eyes blazed into steady green ones, as he demanded "Are you out of your mind?"

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

_Moments earlier..._

"Can I ask you something, Bruce?"

_Here it comes_, Bruce thought resigned. He didn't want to think about what had been. He didn't especially want to be reminded of what he had been doing only a week earlier. But sooner or later, he _knew_ the boy would start asking questions about Batman. After all, if he, himself, had met Alan Scott, the original Green Lantern, when he had been Jaime's age, he probably wouldn't have been able to restrain himself nearly as long. "Ask," he said finally.

"Aren't you tired of looking at the ceiling?"

"What?"

Patiently, Jaime repeated the question more slowly. "Because, if you are, maybe I could try to help you sit up."

Over the last few days, Alfred, Callie, even Tim had been not-so-subtly suggesting that he expend some effort toward getting out of the bed. He wasn't sure himself why he was resisting. He had never been one to give in to despair before. _He had never brought himself to the edge of a complete breakdown before either_. Maybe that was it. Tim's father had been poisoned in Haiti, months earlier. The toxins had left Jack Drake comatose and near death. Even now, recently released from hospital, he was wheelchair-bound, unable to feed himself or even to breathe independently. According to Tim, he was making slow progress with his therapist, but the boy had mentioned his father's continual frustration that Dr. Kinsolving needed to refer to her previous notes in order to confirm any improvement. It had taken Bruce years of training and determination to become the Batman. Years of mastering every martial art and fighting style known to humanity. Years of studying chemistry, biology, robotics, detective skills. How many years would it take, even if it were theoretically possible, for him to bring all of that back?

He had never been able to accept limitations. That was the problem. Always before, he had pushed himself, knowing that there was a deeper purpose than merely becoming the 'best he could'. It had been about ensuring that no other child would have to witness what _he_ had witnessed that night in the alley. That had been the thought that had urged him on, through every set of free-weight repetitions, every lap around the manor grounds, and later, every fall he had taken from—and eventually given to—those he had once called 'sensei.' And now, the frustration in realizing that he might need to expend that same level of determination—to wheel himself from office to coffee shop—assuming he ever entered Waynecorp again... Part of him... did not want to start. Because once he began, he _would_ push himself. And if he pushed too hard, as he almost inevitably would, the consequences could be somewhat more severe than bruises and muscle fatigue. But how could he explain this without sounding like he was wallowing in self-pity?

_You can't. Because that is _**exactly** _what you're doing. Unless you have a better excuse for planning to spend the rest of your life lying in bed than worrying that if you push yourself too hard you might end up spending the rest of your life lying in bed._ He looked at the armchair next to him where Jaime sat, expectantly awaiting his answer. _A journey of a thousand miles_... he thought to himself. Steeling himself, he took the first step. "Try."

Jaime didn't move.

Bruce regarded him, perplexed. "Well?"

"I _am_ trying," he protested. "I just gotta do this slow and careful."

Bruce was about to ask him what he meant, when he became aware that his torso was gradually angling upwards. It felt as if he were floating. Cautiously, he tried to raise his arms, and felt something solid, perhaps an inch above him. He pushed against it, intrigued.

"Bruce," Jaime said with exaggerated patience, "you'll fall if I take that away."

"What is 'that'?"

"You know the stuff my family can do? I can also."

That much was evident. "You're telekinetic?"

Jaime frowned. "Aunt Callie says 'no'." He picked up the cushion from the chair behind him and wedged it into the space between Bruce's lower back and the mattress. "She said what she does is move things with her mind. What I do is make things lighter so they float, or heavier so they sink."

Bruce considered that. So, Jaime must have decreased the mass of his upper body, while increasing that of the air directly above him. He was aware of slowly being lowered back down, onto the cushion. As his back touched, the field of heavier air vanished. "How long have you been practicing that?"

Jaime thought. "Always, I guess. It's kind of hard to know."

"Is it?" He asked, bemused.

"Well," Jaime said seriously, "it's kind of like asking how long I've been able to read big kids' books. I've known how to read since I was three, and I've been reading a lot since then. Aunt Tabitha gave me the Chron'cles of Narnia for my birthday when I was six and I could read them, but maybe I could have read them before, too. I don't know if I can say this right, but I'll try. Once you know how to read... you can read. It doesn't matter if it's _Curious George_ or _Prince Caspian, _or—or _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_—the one like you've got with no pictures and more long words, but sometimes just because you know how to read something doesn't mean it makes sense to you. I've always been able to lift some things with my mind, but Aunt Callie's been showing me that I can lift heavier things if I make them weigh less in just a few spots instead of all over. Or she'll tell me to try making one thing light and something else heavy at the same time. But it's all kind of like things I used to practice before only different. So, I guess, maybe I've kind of been practicing forever. I think. Did that make sense?"

Bruce nodded.

"Did I help okay?"

"You did fine." He had, too.

Jaime exhaled. "Good. 'Cuz if I did all that practicing for nothing, I'd be pretty upset."

Bruce had to smile. "Is that the only thing you practice?"

Jaime grinned back. "No way! That's what Aunt Callie teaches me—that and staff-work, but _Ima_ teaches me gymnastics, I'm learning detective work from Aunt Tabitha, judo and karate from Aunt Natalie..."

Bruce leaned forward, frowning as he realized how Jaime must have been able to recognize the pattern of injuries on his own hands earlier. "Come here," he commanded.

Jaime slid down from the chair, uncomprehending and walked to the bed. Bruce seized one of the small boy's hands.

"Ow! You're hurting me," he protested.

Bruce looked down at the battered appendage in his grip. "_I'm_ hurting you?" He asked in disbelief. "Who gave you these?" he asked, pointing to the purple discolorations covering all of Jaime's knuckles.

Jaime looked away. "I was holding the staff wrong, so my hands kept getting in the way when I tried to block," he mumbled, embarrassed.

Bruce glowered. He turned the hand over, and lightly touched each blister and callus. "And these?"

"I wasn't used to my escrima. Or maybe, it was when I swung across the room on the rings." Miserably, he realized that he should have listened when Aunt Callie had told him not to talk about his training. But she'd also told him that he should try to learn new techniques from anyone who could teach him. And who knew how to fight better than Batman?

Bruce released the hand, and closed his eyes. What was Silver Dragon thinking? "Jaime," he said firmly, I want you to open my closet door. On the far left, you'll see a robe. Wine-colored with a black pattern. Bring it here and help me put it on."

Jaime nodded, and quickly crossed the room to the oak door Bruce had indicated. He found the robe easily, and yanked it from the hanger. He carried it back to Bruce, its hem trailing the floor behind him. Hesitantly, he held one sleeve up. Bruce slipped his arm in, and then nodded as Jaime held up the rest of the garment so that he could slide in his other arm. His eye fell with some measure of distaste upon the wheelchair, placed at the head of the bed. On Bruce's instructions, Jaime moved the chair forward, positioned it properly, and set the brake.

Bruce maneuvered himself into the chair as if he had been doing so for years. "Come with me," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for protest

Jaime followed, close behind, as Bruce steered himself toward the library. When he pushed the door open, his gaze focused squarely on Callie as he asked her...

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"_Are you out of your mind?_"

Callie fought back a surge of defensive anger. Dimly, she was aware of Alison hovering nearby. Alfred moved forward. _And I thought I'd be smiling when he got into that chair for the first time!_ It hit her then that whatever it took to get him finally out of that bed, serving as the focal point for his ire was probably worth it. Steeling herself she drew a deep breath.

"Why do you ask?" she responded coolly.

"Well," Alison interrupted, it _could _have something to do with spending multiple sleepless nights in cape and mask, jumping off buildings, dodging bullets... oh wait." She sniffed. "Forgot to consider the source of the inquiry."

"Ali, back off," Cal said quietly.

She complied.

Callie located a nearby straight-backed chair and deliberately lowered herself onto the seat cushion. In a combat situation, her height was an advantage. In this case, however, towering over an angry man who normally stood six feet two inches did not strike her as a particularly bright move. Not when she didn't want to fight. "Bruce?" She asked.

Bruce motioned Jaime forward. Taking the boy's wrist firmly in hand, he rolled toward Callie. "What do you call these?" He asked, displaying the injured fingers Jaime had shown him earlier.

Callie raised an eyebrow. "Training bruises. I'd think you, of all people, would have recognized them." Seeing her nephew's expression, she added softly, "you're holding him a little too tightly, I think."

Bruce looked down at Jaime's wide-eyed face. He looked further to the small hand that he was holding before Callie's eyes. It had turned dark pink in his grip. Suddenly embarrassed, he released it. The boy threw himself, face down, onto Callie's lap. She stroked his hair, absently.

"Cal," Bruce said through clenched teeth, "he is _six_ years old!"

Jaime's head shot up at that. "Six-and-three-quarters!" he corrected, and quickly dropped back down.

The fire in Bruce's eyes dimmed, almost imperceptibly, then flared up again. "Six," he repeated. "That is _too young_ to expect him to decide if this is the sort of life he wants. Cal, how can you put him through this? At his age? It's much too soon."

"I couldn't agree more," Callie said softly. She thought about sending Jaime from the room, but opted against it. There had been too much of that over the past few days. She gently nudged her nephew off her lap, then picked him up and seated him on her knee. Holding him against her, she continued. "There are a few reasons for what I... what we have been doing as far as training is concerned. First, he's psionic. Or 'meta'. Or whatever you'd like to call it. He needs to know how to control his talents. We know how to teach him. So, as far as that goes, I trust you've no objection."

Bruce shook his head, still frowning. He started to say something.

Callie held up a hand. "I know. The training bruises have nothing to do with the sort of instruction I was describing. So. More reasons. Let's get the stupid, selfish, egotistical one out of the way first." She smiled, thinking. "I can't tell you whether his first complete sentence was 'can I try?' or 'show me how.' I _can_ tell you that he's a natural." Jaime looked up at her. "I've said it before, kiddo," she remarked. "So, yes, we can chalk this up to a woman as eager to impart what she knows as her student is to receive it. But that _would_ be a poor excuse for the drills I put him through."

Her expression turned serious. "But, Bruce, there's another reason. It's the one we generally don't like to talk about. It's not pleasant, but here it is. It has to do with the fact that some of the people we deal with on a routine basis... sometimes decide that the best way to strike back at us... is through those we care for. You ask how I can put him through the weapons practice and martial arts katas... Bruce, with everything out there, how can I_ not?_ If we lose him to some maniac because he didn't have the skills to defend himself..." She let her voice trail off, as she hugged Jaime tighter. "Losing him would be one of the most horrific things I can imagine. But what would be worse would be knowing that I could have taught him something that might have saved him, and held back."

All of the anger had drained from Bruce's face, by the time Callie finished. "You can't teach them everything," he said softly.

"Fine," Callie snapped. "Which techniques can you _guarantee_ me he'll never need to use? Tell me exactly what he needs to know, precisely which skills will protect him and which ones I can just leave out of the course syllabus." She stopped, shocked at her own vehemence, and continued in a softer tone. "But if you can't do that, Bruce, I'm just going to have to do things the way I've been doing them." He'd said 'them', not 'him', she noted. Was that significant?

Bruce was silent.

Callie waited for a moment. "Right," she continued in a more professional tone. "Seeing as you're finally out of bed, I may as well bring you up to speed on other matters.

"Ali," she said, "Natalie needs a second opinion about a shoulder injury she suffered Sunday night. You can check up on her, now, or you can stick around and hear about what we've been up to."

Alison considered for a moment. "Where ignorance is bliss..." she said, getting up. "Where is she?" Cal nudged Jaime off her lap. He took the hint and left to show Alison where the north wing was.

After the two departed, Callie drew a deep breath. "Well, Maxie Zeus and company are currently in Blackgate. Hopefully, there they'll stay until Arkham's maximum-security wing reopens. Monday night, Pathwarden and Phasma nailed one of Marco Gambini's lieutenants, while Naiad and Spectrum—"seeing Bruce's quizzical look, she smiled. "That's right. You hadn't met us, yet, when she was last on active duty. Spectrum's my oldest sister, Sophia. She and Naiad have been dissuading some relatively persistent looters in Tricorner, Oldtown, and the Bowery."

"I heard you say... Kensai was hurt?"

A nod. "Improper weight distribution while accelerating upward caused a shoulder subluxation. Pathwarden popped it back in at the scene, but given that Ali's a sports medicine specialist—and I'm not—I decided to keep Kensai on the sidelines until Ali had a chance to check it out."

"Good call. And Umbra?"

Callie tensed. Alfred had already warned her that Bruce would not be pleased to hear that his surrogate son had (presumably, by now) been notified. As much as Callie thought it was a mistake to keep the matter from Nightwing, she would have accepted the situation. Unfortunately, she had no means of reaching her youngest sister. She had tried calling Tabitha's cell, but received a recording advising that her sister's mailbox was full and to try again later. New York was out of her telepathic range, too. "Manhattan," she said, reluctantly.

That brought him up short. "Manhattan," he repeated. "Why," he asked in a voice so quiet that it was terrible, "would she have gone there?"

Callie gripped the fabric of her skirt so tightly that her knuckles whitened. "She didn't advise me. But there is reason to believe that she's been there for the last four nights looking for—"

"Nightwing!" he cut her off, with a roar, his rage flaring up again. "I can't believe you would... How could you involve him in... in this without asking my permission?"

If she had thought he was angry before, it was nothing compared to his fury now. He had good reason, she reminded herself. It _was_ a breach of confidentiality. She looked up at his eyes, now chips of blue ice.

"I was starting to think that maybe I could tru... Never mind what I thought! There is nothing that you can say or do to take this back. Get your things together and get out. GET OUT!" He lowered his head, pointing at the door.

Callie flinched. Feeling oddly lightheaded, she rose to her feet. Standing on the threshold of the library she hesitated. "Not that it alters matters in the slightest, I know," she said, "but I _am_ sorry."

She closed the door behind her.

Bruce continued to seethe. At the back of his mind, he was aware that his reaction was disproportionate to the action that had caused it. Still, it had actually felt good to vent like that. And Callie _had _overstepped herself. Suddenly, he felt exhausted. "Alfred," he snapped, cursing his weakness, "I could use a hand getting back to the room."

There was no reply. "Alfred?"

He looked up. The older man's flinty gaze pierced him as if he was a beetle on a card. "What?" He glowered back.

"Should you require assistance in reaching the north wing, where Miss Callie has doubtless returned to carry out your orders, I shall be only too happy to assist you. It is a considerably shorter distance to your bedroom. Doubtless, you will be able to reach it 'under your own steam' as it were."

"You're saying _I_ should go to Callie?" he said, astounded. "Why?"

Alfred's retort was immediate. "To deliver the apology to which she is most emphatically entitled for your atrocious behavior." At Bruce's stunned look, he continued. "You reacted as though she had ordered her sister to locate Master Dick. I can assure you that at the time that Miss Tabitha departed from Gotham, Doctor Aaronson was occupied with other... more pressing matters. I don't believe that she was even aware that her sister was gone until hours later."

"She leads Psion Force. It's her business to know," he countered reflexively. He stopped short, remembering. Callie had said Tabitha had left four nights ago. Alfred had said that at the time, Callie had been otherwise occupied—no, he had said 'Doctor Aaronson'... _No. Oh no._

"Alfred," he said, in a strangled voice. "Please tell me that today is not... Thursday. Because if today is, in fact, Thursday, then that would mean that I just... attacked... a woman because she was more concerned with... saving my life... than keeping tabs on one of her team-mates. So, today... simply can_not_ be... Thursday. Can it?"

The butler did not answer. His expression, however, softened slightly. "Will you require assistance in reaching the north wing, Master Bruce?"

Bruce closed his eyes. "No, I'll manage." He didn't move.

"Master Bruce?"

"Just thinking. You wouldn't know offhand whether crow is kosher, would you?"

"I do not believe so," Alfred deadpanned. "If you wish, I believe the definitive answer might be found in Leviticus."

One corner of his mouth quirked upwards. "Don't worry about it," he replied, as he wheeled himself out of the room.

/VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Callie was gathering papers together.

"Let me get this straight," Natalie said. At Alison's direction, she was putting her shoulder through a variety of exercises. "I spent all of yesterday wiping down these counters and koshering the sink and stove—and what in the world is he doing with a Pesach kitchen on the second floor, anyway?"

"I think this wing might have been servants' quarters at one point," Callie said absently.

"Whatever. All this work and now we're leaving?"

"Well, he kicked _me _out. Maybe you can stay if you ask nicely."

Natalie groaned. Alison looked up, intently. "No, it didn't hurt me to do that," she said irritably. "Callie, you know I didn't mean it like that—"There was a knock on the door.

"Your shoulder's fine," Alison confirmed. "Cal, she's back on the duty roster if she wants to be."

"Great!" said Natalie

"I got it," Jaime said, at the same time, darting forward. He swung open the door, stopping when he saw Bruce.

Callie looked up. "I'm almost finished, Mr. Wayne. I'll call a cab, if you'll loan me the money for the fare. I seem to have arrived here without my purse, the other night. Or, if you've no objection, I can ask Bronwen to drive by and pick me up around five when she gets off work." She realized that he hadn't uttered a syllable. She cocked her head quizzically.

"Why," he began. His throat was suddenly dry. Jaime raced to the sink and filled a plastic cup partway with water. He carried it slowly back. "Why," he repeated, "didn't you tell me that you didn't know where she was until after she was long gone?" He accepted the water gratefully.

Callie looked away. "Would it really have mattered?"

"Is this one of those 'truly awful jokes' you say you make when you're stressed? Of course it would have mattered."

"Really? Why?" She continued. "I head a team, Bruce. That means if things go right, I share the glory. If they go wrong, I shoulder the blame. I trained Umbra. I taught her to think for herself, and to use her own judgment. She took the lessons to heart. My fault. If you're going to get mad at any of us for this, it might as well be me."

She blinked. "You heard me. In the ambulance."

"Yes."

"I didn't know if you had. You were so badly hurt."

"I know." He smiled faintly. "I was there, remember?" He sobered. "Instead of blasting you, I should have been—"

Callie smiled. "Don't worry about it. With everything you've been through over the last little while, it's natural you'd blow up over something or other. I guess it's just fortunate you picked _me_ as your target."

Bruce blinked at her.

"Been there, done that." She sighed. "Never want to go back."

"Tell me," he said, intrigued.

Callie glanced over her shoulder at Natalie. Her younger sister nodded, barely perceptibly. "You're absolutely sure about this?" she mouthed. Natalie nodded again, more visibly.

She turned back to Bruce. "Let's go back to the library, then. Oh, and if you'd like to call Tim and Jean-Paul, that's probably best. This will take a while, and I'd rather only tell it once."


	10. Chapter 9: Once Upon a Time in the Yukon

Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later. 

A/N: Prior to 2003, Ontario high schools went up to grade thirteen. Callie did skip a year in elementary school.

A/N: Just realized, I've been using this space to acknowledge almost everyone except my most faithful reviewer. So, giveGodtheglory, I just wanted to say, thanks for the encouragement!

**Chapter 9**

**Once Upon a Time in the Yukon**

Callie looked around her at the other six people in the library. She was sharing a leather-upholstered couch, with Natalie on her left and Alison on her right. Tim sat in a leather armchair placed at a right angle to the couch. Alfred had moved one of the straight-backed chairs in line with it. Bruce was between them. Jaime lay face down across a footstool with a velvet cushion. He had flopped over it, stomach-first, and used his arms to push his way across the room, coming to rest next to the wheelchair. Bruce's hand brushed his shoulder, and the boy rolled onto his side and grinned up at him.

"Mr. Vallee will be unable to join us at this time," Alfred stated.

Callie nodded her acknowledgement. She drew a deep breath. Now that everyone was there, she was suddenly nervous. "Before I begin," she said hesitantly, "I'll ask your forgiveness in advance if this ends up sounding like 'poor, poor pitiful me.' Some of my—our life experiences have been... well, I'll get to those. I guess the other thing is that a lot happened when I was younger, and memories are not always reliable. I've tried to fill in some of the gaps as best I could, by looking at what was probably the most logical scenario. In some cases, I could be wrong. When I think back, it seems as though I remember events with a level of sophistication that I doubt I had at the time. How much really happened the way I'm telling it, and how much is the older me dabbling in revisionist history..." She sighed, then brightened. "Keeping that in mind," she said briskly, "let's start at the beginning with the bald facts.

"Mother came from Anchorage," she said. "Dad was from Toronto. His father had made a fortune in speculative investments—real estate, stock market, probably some other things, too. At each of our births, Dad opened a trust fund.

"Our parents met in high school at some sort of international student colloquium. Afterwards, they wrote, they called, they talked, and, eventually, they married. Mother was all of nineteen at the time. After that, they moved to Whitehorse, Yukon Territory. I don't know why. Considering that Mother's family still lived in Alaska, it may have made things easier in terms of visiting, and in terms of dealing with the temperature."

"But your father?" Alfred ventured.

Callie smiled sadly. "Dad was often away for months on end. I don't know whether he worked for the government, or the military. It might have been the UN peacekeepers. All I know is that he went to a lot of third-world countries. Dad used to say that sometimes countries that were poor in money were richer in other things. I imagine he was referring to things like traditions, culture, values." Her voice went flat. "He never mentioned landmines."

She kept her eyes fixed on a point on the floor in front of her. "I was exactly Jaime's age. It was the end of November—three months before my seventh birthday. I remember I was in the front of the house, playing in the snow. The older ones were away at school. Maybelle also—she was—_is_ gifted musically. We all started piano lessons around three or four. She was the standout. At four she was already on the third grade book. Inquiries were made, and a boarding school willing to bend the rules and take her on early was found. She started first grade a couple of years early..." realizing that she was rambling, Callie checked herself and continued.

"Natalie was about nine months old, and Tabitha a little less than two months away from being born. I remember... two men coming up the walk. They didn't pay attention to me. They just knocked on the door. Mother answered. They spoke for a few minutes, they handed her a clipboard or something, I don't know, and then they just left. They left Mother standing in the doorway, holding the...whatever it was. I think the sun went behind a cloud about then. At least that's how I remember it.

"She didn't let us go to the funeral. Everyone came home, of course. Mother enrolled us in the local school system for the rest of the year, but things didn't play out that way."

Callie sighed. "When I was younger, I thought she was a monster for what she did next. I guess, in a way, she was. Maybe it was a nervous breakdown, or post-natal depression. I can waste time wondering, I suppose, but why bother? She kept going, holding on, until Tabitha was born. And then, six weeks later, she bundled all seven of us kids into the minivan...

"_Where are we going, Mommy?" She's sitting in the middle between nine-year-old Brandon and four-year-old Maybelle. The middle seat in the middle bench. Right in the middle of the van, just like she's right in the middle of the seven kids in the family._

_Mommy doesn't answer. "You have everything you need for two weeks, baby?"_

"_She does. I packed her." Bronwen, also nine, is the responsible one. She's sitting up front, next to Mommy. _

_In the back-back of the minivan, a not-quite-eleven-year-old Sophie sits, one hand resting on the infant car-seat holding Natalie. Tabitha's car-seat is on her other side. Even though Sophie is the oldest, she really can't be trusted to handle tasks such as packing, or reading bedtime stories, or putting dishes away. Something is different about Sophie. Sometimes she spends hours looking out into space. Sometimes when she walks, she stumbles over level ground, or she misses inclines and depressions..._

"Vision problems?" Bruce asked, jerking her out of her reverie.

Callie smiled. "Just the opposite. I told you her codename was 'Spectrum.' My sister sees the entire EM-band. Everything. That includes radio waves, microwaves, x-rays, gamma rays and cosmic rays. Add in infrared and ultraviolet, and I think you can appreciate the consequences of inadequate filters."

Tim spoke up. "No depth perception."

Callie nodded. "For one thing. And it's relatively hard to read a book when you're looking down _through_ all the pages." She shook her head. "School was a nightmare for her in the early grades. Before she learned how to filter her visual impressions, I think she was misdiagnosed with everything from legal blindness to autism, to absence seizures. We would have loved to know how Superman got a handle on things. Was he born knowing how control his talents?"

She blinked. "Lost my train of thought, sorry. Where was I? Right, Mother had the seven of us kids in the car. It was two days before my seventh birthday...

"_You're going to stay with my old friend Tamara Golden. Well, she's Tamara Markovitz, now." Mommy's voice sounds too happy. Like she's holding something back. "Just for a week or two."_

"_All of us?" Brandon asks, incredulous. _

"_But it's my birthday, the day after tomorrow," Callie protests. "You said I could have a party this year! You promised!"_

"_So we'll have your party a few days late." Mommy sounds angry, but then these days she always does._

"_But—"_

"_Honey, so much has been happening since your father... left us..."_

"_He was never here anyway," Maybelle pipes up._

"_Shut up!" A teary Brandon reaches over Callie to punch Maybelle in the arm, hard. His elbow plows into Callie's chest. Both girls start howling. Callie elbows him back in the ribs. He grunts, and pulls her hair. Maybelle tries, ineffectually to punch Brandon. Not quite so ineffectual at that, she's connecting with Callie's upper arm very nicely. As long as she connects with someone, she doesn't seem to care who the target is. Both babies in the back start bawling. Sophie squeezes her eyes shut and clamps her hands over her ears. "I didn't do anything, Mommy!" Her protests mingle with the wailing and the shouting._

"_If you kids don't stop it back there, I'll leave you on the side of the road and never come back!"_

Callie closed her eyes. "We all say things we don't mean, sometimes. Now, at twenty-six, I can truthfully say that I believe, that whenever she decided to do what she did, it wasn't right at that moment in the car. But whether she had it in mind when we started out, or whether she just felt she needed a few days to get her head together before she came to get us, and somehow time just... ran away from her," Callie opened her eyes again, and looked down at the same fixed point on the carpet. "She dropped us off at the Markovitzes... and we never laid eyes on her again.

"From what I've been able to piece together," Callie continued after a moment's pause, "She had originally planned on leaving us older ones at the Markovitzes for a couple of weeks but she'd asked them to take care of Tabitha and Natalie permanently. If Daddy-Ben and Mummy-Tamara ever complained about going from a household of two to a household of nine, literally overnight, it wasn't when we were in earshot. They lived just east of Beaver Creek. You know where that is?"

Bruce thought for a moment. "Canada's westernmost community. Right on the Alaska border."

Callie smiled. "I'm impressed. Whitehorse has a population of roughly twenty-two thousand. Beaver Creek, at last census, was one-oh-nine. That's smaller than a lot of private schools. And we didn't even live _in _the... I think it's called a 'settlement' as opposed to a 'town' or 'village'. Memory tells me I spent the next few months, bundled up or not as seasons dictated, sitting on the front doorstep, watching the highway... waiting. Everything seems to blur together, right about then. At some point, the others went back to school. Mummy-Tamara home-schooled me. At first, it was because I was afraid that if I left the house, if Mother came back and didn't see me there, she'd leave. Then, it was because Natalie and Tabitha used to cry if I left. I guess I just... didn't want to be around too many other people.

"After about a year or so, I think things settled down. On some level, I accepted that my Mother... wasn't coming back. The younger kids started calling them 'Mum' and 'Dad'; the older ones called them 'Ben' and 'Tamara.' I compromised. The Markovitzes opened bank accounts in our names and had the interest from our trust funds deposited there each month. Some of the principle paid for our schooling, of course."

"The Markovitzes had access to your trust fund." It was a statement, but Bruce might as well have posed it as a question.

Callie nodded. "Mother had legally appointed Mummy-Ta—oh this is silly. She appointed Tamara Markovitz to act _in loco parentis_. I think that's what it's called, anyway. Don't ask me if she had power of attorney, or if she was our actual legal guardian. By the time I was old enough to ask the questions, there wasn't anyone around to tell me the answers." She shrugged her shoulders as if shrugging off the memory, and continued.

"Sophie learned how to block out unwanted visual images. The Markovitzes arranged for her to go to a different school. Apparently once they label you... what's the politically correct term, now—intellectually handicapped, or differently abled? Whatever, it's hard to get the label torn off. She started over in a small school in the BC interior. Things got better for her.

"Bran's school, believe it or not, actually had a retired Olympic fencer on the faculty phys. ed. department roster. He'd give lessons after classes were over for the afternoon. Bran was good at it. When he came home for holidays, he'd show me what he'd learned. We used kindling sticks instead of swords. After he'd go back, I'd practice with any long, skinny branch I could find." A faint smile played on her lips. "Always trying to show him up, I guess.

"Bron had her ballet," she continued, sadly. Six years after the accident, remembering the past still hurt. "She and Maybelle were at the same school." Her hands were clammy. She knew she was stalling. She looked over to her younger sister, now leaning in closer. "Natalie..."

"I know what comes next," her sister replied. "It's fine."

Callie nodded. Wiping her hands on her skirt, she paused for a moment. This was the part Bruce wasn't going to want to hear. The part that she had to relate in just the right way. Or, Bruce really _was_ going to kick them out.

"The April after my tenth birthday," she began, "Tamara sat us down at the table one morning. Us being me, Natalie, and Tabitha. For the most part, our psi powers manifested themselves gradually. We learned to control them as they developed. A couple of glaring exceptions to that rule were Sophie's vision, and... Natalie's telepathy.

"It wasn't until Jaime was two that I started wondering about this. Our parents had seven kids, all psionic. Sophie's husband isn't a psi, but Jaime, their son, is. That would seem to support a genetic hypothesis, and, based on our, admittedly small sampling, the psi gene would seem to be dominant. I'm mentioning this because, even though I don't remember walking up to Tamara at eight and saying 'look what I can do' as I levitated a book off of the table, there were a lot of slips that we all must have made, which the Markovitzes ignored. And since Tamara was a close friend of our mother's," she shook her head. "It's speculation, of course, but I suspect Mother may have had some... talent of her own.

"At any rate, that April morning, Tamara sat us down and told us, well, me mostly, that she knew what we could do, and that she was concerned that Natalie didn't seem as discreet about it as the rest of us. She'd been making inquiries, and had found out about somebody living inEastern Alaska... Tok? I think thatwas the place...who might be able to help. She was worried, however that by sending out feelers..."

Bruce nodded, understanding. "Someone else may have been alerted."

"Yes. She told me that she and Ben were going to drive Natalie over the border that afternoon. If anything were to happen, I was to get our bank passbooks, call my siblings at school, and all of us leave as quickly as possible. We had bus schedules, train schedules, and the address of an apartment building Dad owned in Toronto." Her expression turned bleak. "Something happened.

"I was playing with Tabitha in our bedroom when I felt Natalie screaming in my head. And then... I don't know."

She looked up. "I somehow have a memory of grabbing Tabitha's wrist, and running from the house, into the settlement, past the customs house, and outside the settlement limits, with Tabitha flying behind me like a kite. It probably didn't happen exactly that way. Did I fly us telekinetically? Was it the first time I ever teleported? Given what you've been doing for the last decade or so, Bruce, you should have a passing familiarity with the effects of an adrenaline high. However it was," she continued when Bruce nodded, "I found Natalie sitting in the snow by the highway, rocking back and forth, sobbing. I didn't see any tears, but all I could hear were these deep, rasping, sobs. And a few feet over... were six" she gritted her teeth and forced the word out. "Bodies." She swallowed. "Two were Daddy-Ben and Mummy-Tamara. The others, I'd never seen before." Natalie was leaning against her now. Gently she slipped her arm around her younger sister's shoulders.

"To tell you the next part, Bruce, I'm going to have to ask you to think back to a time you probably don't want to. This... isn't going to be easy for either of us—_any_ of us." She inhaled slowly, and looked up at Bruce. His expression was unreadable. "Natalie's singular defining moment, bears a certain resemblance to what, I think, must be yours. I know how you feel about taking a life—now. What I need to ask you to do, is to try to imagine if, right at the moment when you witnessed... what you witnessed, if you had somehow seen a gun at your feet, in that instant, could you have used it?"

Natalie squeezed her sister's hand in silent gratitude. Bruce was silent. At least he seemed to be considering the scenario.

"It's no accident," Callie continued, "that I often refer to our abilities as, 'one more weapon in our arsenals'. They _are_ weapons. And in the hands of a four-year-old with only tenuous control—"

"You're telling me that," Bruce looked at Natalie. Again, his face was carefully closed. "You've killed."

Natalie straightened. "They wanted _me_." She said. "They shot Mum and Dad so they could get their hands on me. I lashed out with a power I didn't know I had, projecting my thoughts into their heads. And my thoughts weren't making a lot of sense right then. I was... shrieking... inside and out. And when I shrieked in their heads, it hurt them. I know because I was in their heads feeling what I was doing to them, and they were in agony." She paused. "And so was I. The only thing worse than hearing the screaming was when the screaming... stopped. Most kids the age I was then have a pretty shaky idea about what death is." She smiled bitterly. "Sometimes being advanced for your years isn't a good thing." She looked up, directly at Bruce. "So. Now, you know."

"If you're looking for absolution..."

"Sorry, wrong religion, no. But that's why, a few years ago, Tabitha clammed up about the 'three-year-gap.' She didn't want to get into what happened to the Markovitzes, because that would have led, inevitably, into what happened next. It's something I wouldn't have wanted you to know, back then."

"And now?"

Natalie shrugged. "You're the world's greatest detective, and you've got time on your hands. Psion Force has been more visible these last few nights. Sooner or later, you were going to do your own checking into our backgrounds. If you had found out that way, tell me it wouldn't have been worse than our spilling it to you now."

"One question," Bruce asked flatly.

Natalie inclined her head.

"Was there any time that you could have stopped your attack before those people died?"

Callie started forward angrily. Natalie held her arm horizontally to block her. "'S'okay, Cal," she murmured. "I knew he'd ask something like that." She twirled a stray lock of hair about her forefinger. "I'd like to know, myself, come to think of it." She closed her eyes. "You don't know how much I'd like to know for sure, one way or the other." She opened them again. "Given that I was four years old, didn't really understand what I was doing, and was completely hysterical at the time, probably not. But, Mr. Wayne, if you're asking for some sort of oath," she shook her head, "I don't know that I could swear to it in a court of law."

Bruce shook his head. Cal and Natalie had just described what amounted to a tragic accident. Cal had compared it to his finding a gun in the alley that night. It was a close enough analogy. At eight, though, he had already had a fair idea of what pulling the trigger would do. Natalie, clearly, could not have said the same about her talent. And, he could admit, even if only to himself, that in the scenario Callie had described, he _wasn't _able to state with certainty that he wouldn't have fired the weapon. "I understand," he said finally. "If you're looking for me to tell you that they had it coming..."

"They did," Natalie said simply. "But that doesn't mean I had to be the one who gave it to them. To put it a different way, if someone else had popped up on the landscape and knocked them off, I might have cheered. But, things didn't work out that way. And I didn't cheer. The snow takes a long time melting that far north. There was still plenty of it on the ground in April. Callie lifted it, moved it over the bodies. Nobody passed by who could have seen.

"I didn't talk anymore, after that. Not for almost two years. That doesn't mean I didn't wake up screaming most nights. I don't remember very much else, not even what the nightmares were all about. Callie started training us, and I went through the motions. First night out, I'll admit freely that I wasn't ready. They brought me along because they were afraid that if a babysitter spent time with me, she'd notice that I had a bigger problem than, what was it you told Mrs. Berger, Cal? I was shy around strangers?"

Callie nodded. "It wasn't that unusual a problem in a small child." She sighed. "Here I thought I'd be able to keep our history linear instead of jumping ahead and back. Oh, well. I think it was on the train from Edmonton to Toronto that I got the idea to start the team. Like I told you before, it was that or the psychic friends network. Over time, I've learned that people in general rarely do things for only one reason. Let's just say I've given you the least embarrassing one and let it go at that."

"Our first night out was almost uneventful. Fighting crime in Toronto a few years ago was... kind of like patrolling Bristol during daylight hours. We went into one of the areas where we'd been told it wasn't safe to walk alone, found a park and told Sophie to stay there with Natalie." Her nose crinkled in disgust. "Ever have one of those nights where you go looking for trouble and just can't find it?"

Tim laughed. "It's happened."

Callie sighed. "Not enough of the time, most likely. But that night, we were caught up in the thrill of anticipation—and there wasn't anything at all exciting going on. So, after walking and floating up and down a six-block radius, getting some very peculiar looks, we were just about to call it a night when I got a frantic communiqué from Sophie.

"_Cal?"_

"_Code names in costume, Spectrum"_

"_Silver Dragon, fine! Seeker's bolted."_

"_What! Why weren't you watching her?"_

"_I was. I just took my eyes off her for a minute and—Silver Dragon, I just spotted her, now. She's across the street and halfway up the side of the building." She paused. "Hold on. I think I know where she's going. On the fourth floor, there's a kid crying. Someone broke into her apartment, carrying a firearm."_

"_Pistol?"_

_(Another pause, longer this time) "No, the muzzle's longer. Some kind of rifle." (Hesitation). "Silver Dragon, it doesn't look loaded to me."_

"It was an AK-47," Natalie said quietly. "Same type of weapon that was used to murder my foster parents. The child's mother had run away from an abusive husband, at least that's what the next day's papers reported. That night, he'd tracked them down. Used the gun like a club to break the lock on the door. Then he used it to... communicate with his wife. She was unconscious on the kitchen floor.

"Seeker?" Bruce asked.

Natalie flushed. "That wasn't a codename _I_ selected. Not that she even knew I existed, but it's been a small comfort to me that JK Rowling didn't introduce Quidditch to the world until a year or so _after_ I changed my name to 'Kensai'.

"Anyhow, the child, a girl, incidentally, was terrified. The best shield in the world can be broken through if you hit it in the right spot. Her... anguish... broke through mine. I don't know what I was thinking, _if _I was thinking, beyond shutting out her pain. And if I couldn't block it off with my psi-shields, I had to do it some other way. So, off I ran, Sophie a few minutes behind me. I was heading for the window. She took the front door and the elevator."

"No security?" Tim asked.

Callie smiled. "Let's state for the record that we weren't as observant from a religious standpoint then as we are now. Still and all, you've probably heard the expression 'coincidences are miracles in which G-d prefers to remain anonymous?'" Without waiting for a response, she continued. "Someone had _coincidentally_ wedged a magazine between the door and doorjamb to hold it open. Spectrum just breezed on up."

"I was already in through the window. I remember cutting in front of the little girl and trying to look menacing." Natalie smiled sheepishly. "But then, I was about three foot-one, under forty pounds in my costume, and, Bronwen couldn't sew that well at the time. Creep took one look at me and started laughing his head off." Natalie shrugged nonchalantly. "So I made a fist, swung as hard as I could—and connected with the one area I could reach that would cause the most pain."

Alfred chuckled. Tim burst out laughing. Even Bruce smiled.

"It was an accident!" Natalie protested. "I was aiming for the abdomen! Callie, tell them."

Callie squeezed her arm sympathetically. "I wasn't in the room, Sis, but I'll take your word for it." She continued.

"Before the perp recovered, Spectrum was on the scene. She found the girl's mother in the kitchen, starting to come to, called 9-1-1 and then, she and Seeker waited until she saw the cops coming up the block before making themselves scarce." She smiled wryly. "Sometimes, I wish _I_ had x-ray vision, too." The smile faded. "And, for the first time in over two years, my little sister spoke."

"The girl was pretty shook up. I had to do something. I don't even remember what I said."

"She wasn't the only person shaken up," Callie countered. "I almost benched you for a while." She looked directly at Bruce. "It's not just you who has scruples about inducting six-year-olds. The next afternoon, I remember I went into the kitchen to set the table for supper. Natalie was already sitting there, in full costume, and she was _smiling_. A real, happy, smile. That was another thing I hadn't seen in two years. Then, I tried to tell her that she was going to sit the next few innings out... and she froze me with a look I've witnessed _you,_ she gestured to Bruce, employ on more than a few occasions. I've perfected it in front of a mirror—it took weeks of practice. When you see that expression on the face of a first-grader, it is either one of the most hilarious or one of the most terrifying things you can imagine." She exhaled noisily. "Let's just say, I wasn't laughing. That was the last time anyone suggested that she didn't have a right to be out there."

"Anyone on the _team_," Natalie corrected gently, remembering an encounter on a Gotham rooftop six years earlier.

"I stand corrected. In any event, at night, in costume, she started talking again. Not a lot, and not so often at first, but it was a beginning. By the time summer was over, and she was ready to start school, she was starting to verbalize in other arenas as well. Don't misunderstand; she was still very quiet in school. I remember her report cards always commented that she needed to participate in class more, but if the teacher actually called on her, she'd give the answer, and invariably, it was the right answer. Where she shone, though, was, oddly enough, on the basketball court."

Tim blinked. "You?" he asked Natalie in disbelief.

Natalie sighed. "Yes. Short people _can_ play basketball. We just have to be really, really good at it. I was on the team from grades one through six."

Alison interrupted. "See, Natalie didn't really try to score points that often. She just made darned sure that she was always in position to take the ball and pass it to someone else who could score the points."

"At the end of the day," Natalie continued, "I never felt I was out there to get the ball in the basket. I was out there to make the team win. Usually, we did."

She grimaced. "In something which I like to refer to as 'one of life's little ironies,' when I was about eight, I had a week which went something like this. Sunday night: home studying for math test. Injuries: self-esteem took major hit when realized that I still hadn't mastered my seven times-table. Monday night: interrupted gang turf war as team action. Apprehended: ten. My injuries: nil. Their injuries: nothing that couldn't be treated by anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of first aid. Tuesday night: interrupted skinheads in act of spray-painting swastikas at Jewish cemetery. Also team action. Apprehended: five. My injuries: nil." Her eyes darkened from their normal green-grey. "Their injuries: none permanent. Wednesday night: lost footing on window ledge fourteen stories up while scouting. Fired grapnel and recovered at four stories but aborted surveillance for that night. Injuries: only to pride. Thursday night: found missing toddler in rubble of collapsed building. Managed to get child and self off-site before more debris cut off possible escape. Injuries: nil." Her expression brightened. "Friday morning: somehow contrived to slip on spilled tapioca pudding," she made a disgusted face, "on way downstairs to gym class, ending in humiliated heap at bottom of stairwell. Injuries: hairline fracture of ankle and torn ligaments in same." She grinned at Bruce. "And I thought my nights were supposed to be the dangerous part of my workday!"

That actually earned her a second smile from Bruce. It wasn't a broad one, and it vanished almost as soon as she noted it, but she had seen it.

"They replaced me on the team, temporarily, with someone a bit taller than I was, and maybe even a better player. But, this person played as if she expected the NBA to have talent scouts scoping out elementary school intramural games. Bottom line, my team suddenly started scoring a lot fewer baskets because Little Miss Watch-Me-Wow-You kept hogging the ball." She grinned. "Some of the skills you pick up in team sports are applicable to other kinds of teams, as well. And I think a welcome side effect of my being on those teams was that I didn't become the 'kid everyone picks on.'"

Tim frowned. "How did you react to the classmate who _was_?"

Natalie's shrugged. "If I saw any kids picking on her, I'd just walk up to them, nice and friendly, and tell them what was going through my head. Like this." Natalie's eyes went reptile-cold. "I... _hate..._ bullies," she snarled. Tim flinched. And instant later, the warmth was back in her eyes. "And that was usually enough to get them to back off."

Callie continued. "Things went on swimmingly for about a year. Then, Bran told me that he wanted to quit school. He was, is, bright, but, at that time, he was not particularly motivated. He wanted to travel, learn a few skills he couldn't pick up, where we were. He was fifteen. I was thirteen, and very much against it." She smiled ruefully. "As you can probably guess, I've glossed over a few things. We weren't perfect, back then. We aren't perfect, now either. Maybe, I could have talked my brother around if I'd actually tried listening to what he was saying. Unfortunately, there was this little voice in my head saying 'why is trying to walk out on _me_?' I think you'll agree a different frame of mind could have led to a different outcome. As it was, Bran and I had a real shouting match. I got in the last word, so according to the 'rules' I suppose that makes me the winner. Of course he ducked out that night when he was supposed to be on patrol, left a note saying he couldn't stay anymore, and he'd be in touch." She sighed. "We didn't speak again for over four years. Some victory. Yay me."

That sounded a bit too familiar, Bruce thought. He realized something. "You haven't mentioned Phasma."

Callie brightened. "No, that's right. I was going to, but we skipped over a couple of years, before. She and Maybelle were friends from day one. They were in the same classes in school, and both took advanced music lessons in the same after school program. And, due to a need to practice certain psionic maneuvers out-of-doors, and insufficient security precautions—"

"They both found the same area to practice and neither realized the other was there until it was too late," Bruce supplied.

Cal nodded. "After that, Maybelle just _had _to bring Jill round for more intensive training. Phasma started about three months after we did. I'll save the 'fun-with-evading-parents-night-after-night' vignettes for another time."

She sighed. "Let's flash forward about four years. I'm now seventeen and in grade thirteen in high school. I'm starting to look at universities for next year. Meanwhile, I'm de facto mother, _den_ mother, team leader... when I'm not in class, I'm in costume. When I'm not in costume, I'm studying or practicing, and somehow it feels like I'm roller-skating on thin ice, on which someone has thoughtfully dumped a bag of ball bearings. I've got the weight of the world on my shoulders, the same shoulders that somebody went and stapled to my _neck_, and I keep getting this sense that I didn't take my shirt off the hanger before I put it on."

Bruce shifted position, looking away. Callie blinked, solemnly. "That bad, huh?"

He didn't answer. He noted to himself, however, that her saying 'been there, done that' earlier, had clearly _not_ been facetious.

Callie paused. When Bruce didn't say anything after a moment, she continued. "Things could have come to a less-enjoyable conclusion if Tabitha hadn't had it out with me. Don't ask me to relay that conversation. While I've been fairly open, to this point, some things are still a little... too personal for me to go into. Suffice to say that she told me that she was worried about me. That, I shrugged off. Then, she told me that I was the only mother she had left, and the way things were going she was terrified that she was going to lose me, too."

Alfred lowered his eyes. "Oh, my."

"Indeed," she agreed, unconsciously echoing his formality. "So, I went looking for Bronwen, because, of course, no self-respecting high school senior would deign to unburden herself to a ten-year-old pest of a kid sister. I found Bron in the aerobics studio of the building's gym facilities, practicing her ballet.

"_Got a minute?"_

_Bronwen extends her left leg, ankle resting on the barre, as she practices a turnout. _Giselle_ plays in the background. Bronwen does not turn around. "What's up?"_

"_Tabitha's worried about me." Now that the words are out of her mouth, it hits her how stupid they sound._

"_We all are," Bronwen states in a matter-of-fact tone. "She's just the only one who's up and told you is all."_

"_She said I'm trying to do too much on my own." And still, Callie sounds like she's whining._

"_Mmm. Well, she's right."_

"_Is that all you're going to say?"_

"_Depends." She switches position, returning her left leg to the floor and extending her right. "Are you actually looking to change things, or are you just trying to confirm whether she's the only one of us who's noticing problems?"_

"_Of course, if there's something wrong I want to fix it! What do you take me for?"_

"_I take you for someone who's been pushing herself for so long that she doesn't know how to relax anymore. I saw you the last time we went to the amusement park—everyone else was screaming and having a good time. **You** spent ten minutes trying to figure out the minimum velocity at which the roller coaster had to be traveling in order for the passengers not to fall out when it did the triple loop!"_

"_**And** the maximum velocity at which it could travel in order to decelerate to a safe stop at the end of the ride."_

_Bronwen sighs. "The truly scary thing is, you seem to think that's a normal, healthy thing to do. Anyway, if it were only that, I'd just shrug it off as some personality quirk. Can I ask you something?"_

_Callie shrugs, then realizes that her sister has her back to her. Evidently, though, her gesture was spotted in the mirror._

"_Why don't you trust us in the field?"_

"_Who says I don't?"_

"_You do. Every time you revamp our attack strategies so that they all turn out to be endless variations of 'stay back—**I'll** deal with this.' Brilliant. Six of us hiding in the shadows, half of us hoping some flunky might panic and bolt in our direction so we might get to finally **do** something, and the other half wishing they'd brought magazines. And if G-d forbid, you really do holler for backup, I want to dial 9-1-1 because any time you actually admit you need us, it's got to be five minutes to World War III!"_

"_I'm not that bad."_

"_No. You're worse. I don't know if you noticed this, Callie, but **you** are not Captain Kirk, and **we** are not the unnamed red-shirted security guards who get offed before the first commercial break. Here's how it works. When we go in as a team, we actually watch out for each other, **and** for ourselves. Like we used to. Before Naiad met Haywire. Before Bran left—"_

"_Don't bring him up!"_

"_Why not? Because it gets you angry? It gets **me** angry that you barely acknowledge that he exists. Anyway, that's neither here nor now. Simple question, Callie. Are we a team? Or aren't we?" Bronwen turns to face her. "Callie?"_

_Callie feels her face grow hot. Her hands are ice-cold. "We're a team," she says, knowing what the rejoinder will be. It isn't long in coming._

"_Then for pity's sake treat us like we are. As it is, you have more respect for your chess pieces. At least you actually let your rooks and knights see some action instead of throwing everything onto your queen."_

"_I also know that when the game's over, I'll have back all the pieces I started with. And you are not a rook."_

_Bronwen smiles. "No. I always saw myself more as a knight, leaping into the fray. I probably wouldn't make a bad bishop, either. Thing is, you do know what would happen if you did keep all your other pieces back and tried to win the game just by moving your queen around: that blasted all-but-useless-yet-so-essential king keeps himself one square ahead of you, while you're gulping down assorted other pieces. Maybe you even knock both opposing rooks off the board. And then, just when you think you can't possibly lose, you get swallowed. By a **pawn!** As important a piece as the queen is, it can't win the game by itself._

"_So what happens when I'm checking out a potential hideout, spot one or two hostiles, and call for backup assuming there must be more? Team shows up with weapons blazing, and I discover I've called out the cavalry for a couple of scared kids who would've surrendered if I'd frowned at them. What's that going to look like?"_

_Bronwen gives her a smile of exasperation. "It's going to look like you weren't sure if you could handle it alone. But since you **weren't** sure if you could handle it alone, I really don't see a problem, here. Keep going the way you're going, Cal, and if you don't get yourself killed, we're going to leave our conventional weapons at home at start packing seltzer."_

"_Seltzer," Callie repeats, blankly._

_Bronwen gives her a knowing smile. "If you're going to treat us like stooges, don't be so surprised if we end up acting like 'em." She closes one eye, thrusts her index finger at Callie, and says with a straight face, "nyuk-nyuk-nyuk."_

_Callie turns away. Bronwen moves from the barre and puts her hand on Callie's shoulder. "It seems like the better we get, the less you trust us."_

"_More like, the better you get, the more scared I get that we're due for a run of bad luck."_

"_I see. You're bent on creating a self-fulfilling prophecy."_

"_What?"_

"_Well, you're doing everything you can to sabotage yourself in order to keep us from getting hurt. Meanwhile, you can't seem to figure out that maybe we'd like to keep you from same. You seem to be saying that you're the only one entitled to risk her life. Well, where does that leave us? And what makes **you** so blasted special?"_

Callie paused for a moment, seeing Tim studiously jotting something in a pocket notebook. Bruce, looking decidedly uncomfortable, was ignoring him. Callie continued.

"I won't recreate the rest of the conversation. You can probably get the picture from here. It would be great if I could say that from that day forward, everything changed, and I became a new person. Unfortunately life is not a fifties sit-com, and most issues do _not_ get resolved in thirty to sixty minutes including credits and commercials. I'd been sweeping a lot of things under the rug, and somehow I was ignoring the fact that the ceiling seemed a lot lower. Certain paths I'd chosen weren't... leading where they had seemed to," her tone turned thoughtful.

"That was a real problem—backtracking, revising tactics. It helped when Bronwen continued with the chess imagery and pointed out that the only piece which can't seem to admit that it made a mistake, and steadfastly refuses to retreat from a position, no matter how wrongheaded it might be, is the weakest, most expendable one of all. It helped when I started exploring my heritage as something other than lists of 'thou shalt' this and 'thou shalt not' that. And it definitely helped when I started breaking us up into smaller teams more often. Much as it hurts to admit it, a lot of the time they did better without me to second-guess them. And I realized I could depend on them more. So, that aspect, at least, has a happy... continuation." She flushed, then focused directly on Bruce. "Anyway, that's what worked for me. What's sauce for the goose may not necessarily be sauce for the gander, but at least give it some thought. Please, Bruce."

Bruce lowered his eyes. For a few moments he said nothing. When he finally spoke, his voice was weary, resigned, even—but not defeated. "When Dick comes here," he said finally, "what will he have been told?"

Callie thought. "Unless Umbra has access to information other than what's been reported, the only thing she would have been able to tell him is," she tried to find a diplomatic way to phrase it, "what was reported on the radio by a news reporter who was onsite at Robinson Square, that evening."

Bruce absorbed that. "You'd better tell him, then. Before he sees."

Callie nodded. "Anything you want kept back?"

He thought. "Don't tell him that... this is..." he forced the word out "permanent. He's had other things he's been dealing with."

_And you're not ready to deal with it, yourself, are you? _Callie thought to herself. She had been reluctant to mention her idea earlier; it seemed cruel to build up false hopes—_Just wait one minute! Who says they're false? False would be telling him that Bane hypnotized him and this paralysis is all in his head!_" She flinched, almost imperceptibly. It seemed that she was in touch with her inner Bronwen. She drew a deep breath.

"Don't worry," she smiled. "I wouldn't want to lie to him."

Bruce frowned. "I'm not asking you to _lie_, I'm asking you to omit—"he broke off. "Don't... worry?"

Callie hesitated. "I'm not saying definite. This is only a theory. But Ali and I have been examining the angles and it looks like it could work—on paper. So, once Tabitha gets back, she, Sophia, Maybelle, Natalie, you, and I are going to sit down and see whether it can be put into practice. Let me tell you how I've been thinking, and you can tell me if anything's been overlooked."


	11. Chapter 10: All Together Now

Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

"The Living Years" Copyright 1990 by Mike and the Mechanics. From _The Living Years_ CD, released by Atlantic. I've been told it's better to ask forgiveness than seek permission, so forgive me for not asking first.

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later.

A/N: Dick confronted Bruce after Jason Todd's death in New Teen Titans #55.

**Chapter 10**

**All Together Now**

_Friday, 8:32 a.m._

**(Tabitha)**

I've been dozing when my cell goes off. "Y'hello?" I mumble. There's a gasp on the other end. I see Dick glance in my direction before turning back to the road.

"I don't believe it. You've finally turned this back on? Where are you?" Natalie. She doesn't sound angry with me. On the other hand, she usually keeps herself on a pretty tight rein emotionally. I guess, given what can happen when she loses control, that's understandable.

"About an hour ago," I say. We're... just past the Brown Bridge, turning north on Englehart..." I cover the mouthpiece with my hand. "Not the expressway?" I ask.

Dick doesn't take his eyes off the asphalt. "Aparo's backed up due to construction. At this time of the morning, it's faster to go through the city. Is that one of your teammates?"

I nod, and go back to my sister. "How is everyone?"

She lowers her voice. "That's what we have to talk about. I'll fill you in. I'll be at your TRAFICK office. How many more of you are there?"

"One," I say shortly.

There's a grunt on the other end. "The one Alfred assumes you went to find?"

Cloak and dagger gets annoying, but cell phones aren't exactly the smartest way to relay sensitive information. That's why Natalie wants to meet me in Park Row. At least there, we can talk plainly. My eyes dart over to Dick's direction. He seems to be handling things calmly. As long as I don't take into consideration that his knuckles are white around the steering wheel, anyway.

"Mmmhmm," I reply.

"I have to bring him up to date, too." Suddenly, I'm talking to Kensai. "_Before_ he arrives in Bristol." So, that means Dick can't drop me off and keep going. Figures. I disconnect before I can ask her to break the good news to Dick herself. She isn't going to tell him anything she wouldn't tell _me_ on an unsecured line.

"Don't hate me," I say. "We've got to make a stop."

"You can't be serious."

"Kensai is," I say. "She'll rendezvous with us at 1438 Park."

"No way," he shoots back. "I'll pass by there, and you can phase out if you want to. I'm going on."

Now, how did I know he was going to say that? I sigh. If Bronwen were here, she'd know exactly how to make him listen. If Natalie could teleport, she'd be in the back seat, explaining as we drive. If this car had wings it would be an airplane, but my sisters aren't here, the car remains a car, and I have to come up with something. Problem is, if I were in his place, I'd be reacting the same way, only a lot less calmly. Being obnoxious isn't going to work, this time. But I don't know what I can tell him that might change his mind. Maybe I know someone who does. "Call Barbara."

"What?"

"Use my cell if you want to. Ask her what she thinks about this, if you don't want to listen to me. Here's what I can tell you, right now though. One, Natalie didn't sound any more agitated than usual. Odds are the worst hasn't happened. Two, if everything were great, she'd have said. Even if she did it by calling me collect and asking for 'Alice Fein'."

He looks blank. I say it again slowly. "All-is Fine? Get it?" He doesn't answer. "If you want me to guess, I'd say it's not good, but it could be worse." I think I've found my analogy. "Look, when you're preparing for a mission, you do as much research as you can ahead of time, right? I mean, when you do your information gathering, check your files to see if you recognize the M.O., review strengths and weaknesses, determine whether it's smarter to go in by motorcycle or hang-glider, you're going to deal with all that before you even leave your base of operations, aren't you?" Please say yes.

He doesn't say anything. _Oh, no, he's nothing like Batman_. Yeah, right. Well, at least he's not denying my assumption. I wonder why he's not calling Green. No point my asking—he'd probably say—rightly, that he doesn't want to talk on a cell or commlink while he's driving. Besides, that really isn't my business.

"If things were really so bad they couldn't wait," I say after about a minute, "Natalie would be standing at the manor gate controls ready to buzz you in. Heck, she'd probably be telling me to file our 'flight plan' with Oracle in order to make sure we have green lights all the way through the city, like in that _Italian Job_ movie. Since she isn't, doesn't it make sense to at least hear my sister out?"

"What if I'd come to tell you _Natalie_ had been the one thrown off a building five days ago, and _Bruce_ called to tell you to wait until he met up with you?"

Darn! He knows how to fight me. "I try not to argue with six-foot bats." True, but he's right. I wouldn't like sitting tight, any more than he does. "But in that case," honesty compels me to add, "you're right. I would. Look, Natalie's on her way there, now. Tell you what: we get there before she does, we wait ten minutes, and then we're gone."

He thinks about it. "Five minutes. Not a nanosecond more."

"Deal."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

_8:47 a.m._

Natalie is sitting on the steps in front of the door when we get there. She's holding a knapsack on her lap, and I can see a baguette poking out of it. The sign over the door reads: Theatrical Repertory Association For Inner-City Kids—TRAFICK by any other name. I started this up informally about six years ago. It got a little more formal when I turned eighteen and registered the association as a not-for-profit. Sophie cosigned—anyway, it's a long story, tell you later, maybe. Short version, we stage four musicals a year—two per season. One has to be suitable viewing for kids under ten, one doesn't. Right now, we're unleashing _Into the Woods_ and _The Secret Garden_ at the end of August.

The reasons Natalie wants to meet us here are because I own this real estate, and I've got an office on the top floor (with a bedroom, kitchen, bath and shower in the back) complete with security devices that probably rival those of a certain cave in Bristol.

My sister looks tired. It's morning. Duh. "Park on the side, where it says 'reserved for owner'" I say to Dick.

"Want to get me towed?"

"I _am_ the owner." I grin at his double take. Natalie meets us as we're getting out of the car.

"I was afraid you'd keep driving if I wasn't in plain view," she says, setting one foot firmly on one of the metal strips anchoring the drainage pipe to the brick wall. "Race you to the skylight."

No way am I even going to touch that one. As soon challenge the Flash to a footrace, or Aquaman to an underwater breathing competition. Natalie scaled El Capitan when she was fifteen—in eighteen hours, forty-one minutes. That's not a world record for speed or age, mind you. The youngest climber to make it up that rock-face is some eleven-year-old boy who speed-climbed it in fourteen. I wouldn't race him either. Point is, the climb usually takes three to four days. Natalie does this kind of thing for fun.

I phase back into the car to get my mask. You see, starting up a youth club in one of the worst parts of town, at the tender age of thirteen, is not a bright move. Not when you're there late afternoons and evenings after dark. _But,_ if you wear a costume, well, let's just say the tougher elements think harder before they mess with you. Still, I'm more casual about things here. I always wear the mask, but mostly I'll wear civvies instead of Kevlar. I keep a spare costume here, just in case.

I explain this to Dick, after emerging from the car.

He sighs. "I suppose you want me to put a mask on, too."

"Not really. I've brought people up to my office before who have nothing to do with my... other extra-curricular activities. There's no reason for anybody to assume anything different about y—"He's already got the mask on. Where in the heck do you find lenses that make the eyes look totally opaque? It's creepy. Which, of course is, a) the general idea, and b) the reason I'd like a pair of my own. "Fine, whatever. I'm taking the front door. You can follow one of us."

He heads for the drainpipe. Figures. I've got a good head for heights. You have to, in this business, in this city. But I don't feel the need to scale a building every chance I get. Then again, unlike Dick, I didn't spend my childhood on a trapeze, and, unlike Natalie, I'm not five-feet-and-one-half-inch. She used to be a lot more sensitive about her (lack of) height, around the time that she started taking her climbing seriously. There's got to be a connection.

I pull open the inner door. "Tyrone, I'll be upstairs if you need me," I call to the high school junior on receptionist duty. Actually, as of September, he'll be a senior. Tyrone may be built like a nightclub bouncer, but he's one of the most easy-going people I know—unless he sees a person beating up on someone smaller. He's also got a great baritone—he's singing the parts of Cinderella's Prince and the Wolf in _Into the Woods_.

"Left some messages for you in your cubby," he calls. I wave, and grab them. I'll look them over later.

I'm about to phase in when I see my office door open a crack. I open it wider. Natalie grins at me. "I didn't even have to tell him." I smile back, and turn on my security display. The fire exit can't be opened from outside, and cameras will tell me who's heading down the hall, or up the wall. And the stairs can best be described as extra creaky. They're structurally solid, but noisy. So, we'll know if anyone's coming.

I see she's put the baguette on the table by the door. She hasn't put any other groceries down. That means it's a prop. Natalie tends to use them for emphasis. Words sometimes fail her when she's nervous. Funny thing is, she doesn't look nervous. She actually seems a lot more at ease than usual outside the family. Something happened while I was away. I'll have to ask her about it later.

Dick clears his throat. "Fill me in," he says. "Fast."

Natalie stands at attention. She's not being cute or anything; she just has two speeds—business and everything else. Right now, she is definitely in business mode. She looks at me. "You were off to New York before he hit the pavement?"

I nod. Close enough.

She takes a deep breath. "Just so you know..." she looks at Dick. Yeah, it's confusing. Callie's rule about codenames in costume is all well and good until you're talking to someone wearing jeans, a T-shirt—and a domino mask.

"Nightwing," he supplies. Fair enough. The acoustics in the hallway are intentionally terrible, but why risk?

She nods. "And I'm Kensai. As I was saying, he's told Callie it was okay to pass this on to you, otherwise medical ethics would kick in and—"

"I understand," he says quickly. He looks at me, then back to Kensai. "Your sister told me about what's happened up until five days ago. The sooner you bring me up to date, the sooner we go."

She nods and starts rattling off a laundry list of injuries. Crud. Bane didn't just drop Batman off the museum rooftop; he practically beat him to a pulp, beforehand. But my mind keeps coming back to the first item on Kensai's damage inventory. See, I remember helping Callie review different types of fractures when she was in premed. A lot of times, the terminology is surprisingly straightforward. Not in every case, of course. When Bron got pinned under that ceiling support, she suffered a Brown-Sequard spinal injury. Or, to rephrase, she's paralyzed below the point of injury, but only on one side. Many times, though, a fracture looks the way it sounds like it should. You know, a spiral fracture is something resembling a spiral. Like if someone's arm gets twisted. So when Natalie mentions a 'fulcrum' stress fracture, I get this very sick sinking feeling, like I'm plummeting through the floorboards. (Yes, that's actually happened to me. And no, it isn't fun.) Because, even though I don't remember immediately what the probable circumstances are that would cause that type of injury, I do know what a fulcrum is. And, as that image sinks in, it becomes horrifyingly obvious to me why Kensai brought that baguette.

I keep one eye on the security display, the other on Nightwing. He looks like he did on the roof in Manhattan, last night, when I told him why I was there—like someone just sucker-punched him in the gut. His voice is rock-steady, but it sends a chill through me. He sounds like he did in the car when he found out I was AWOL, only more so. "Let's just pretend for a moment that I don't have any imagination," he says evenly. "Give me the most likely scenario where Batman could have... received... that sort of spinal injury."

Natalie doesn't say anything right away. She crosses in front of Nightwing, and stands in front of the door. Smart planning. I've got tables along each wall, and a desk under the skylight, where up-stage center would be if this were a theatre set. She picked the one closest to the door to put her prop down on. "My best guess?" She shakes her head sadly, and reaches for the baguette. She holds it out horizontally in both hands, about waist high, then in one fluid motion, she brings the bread down and her knee up—hard. And there she is, holding one piece of baguette in each hand. I swallow. Some days, a person just doesn't want to be right.

Nightwing's jaw drops. He sounds like he's choking. It hits me suddenly just how much he's been holding back until he had the facts. Now that he's got them, it's anyone's guess whether he's going to explode... or implode. When he finds his voice again, it sounds like he's wearing the bat-suit. All he says are three monosyllables: "Bane... is... MEAT!"

He lunges forward for the door, but Natalie's in position to block. She thrusts her palm—firmly—against his chest. I think it's the shock that he's encountering resistance that stops him. Natalie knows how to fight—after fourteen years in a costume, one would _hope_ she knows how, but she's not physically strong. If he wanted to, he could probably swat her away like a mosquito. "There's already a lineup for that," my sister says. "Wait your turn." She sounds dead serious.

The first time she met Batman, she said he had a voice that cuts like a scythe. I'm not disputing that. But if his is a scythe, hers is a scalpel—sharp, smooth, and you don't even realize she's connected until you see the effect. It stops Nightwing. Temporarily. "Talk fast," he grits. "Or get out of my way."

"Where were you planning to go?" She asks, reasonably. "It's daylight. He could be anywhere. Besides, there's at least one person ahead of you who's got a prior claim."

She's good. One little sentence and she throws us both for a loop. "You don't mean—"I start to interrupt as he replies:

"You're not saying—"

Kensai smiles. It's almost a smirk. "That depends partly on you, Sis. I'll—"

At that moment, a loud creak and a soft chime bring my attention to the secu-cams. "Company," I say. I look at Nightwing. "Some of the kids I work with, here. You want to change to full-dress uniform in the back, or just keep the mask?"

"I don't have ti—"

There's a knock on the door. "Excuse me," I brush past him as Natalie edges in front of the table and hoists herself onto it. I pull the door open wider. As I do so, Nightwing moves out of the line of sight of whoever's in the hallway. 'Whoever' turns out to be Tyrone, flanked by Jeff, the thirteen-year-old playing Jack in _Into the Woods, _and Nisha, the eight-year-old playing Mary Lennox in _The Secret Garden_. Tyrone is holding a bulging manila envelope.

"What's up?" I ask, trying not to sound impatient.

Tyrone pushes the envelope at me. "For Batman," he says. "We used some of the art stuff. Hope that's okay."

I glance over my shoulder to Natalie. Slight headshake. Good call. Anyone starts thinking we know a way to contact Batman, and the next thing you know, people are going to start tailing us to try to find him. I feign exasperation. "Why does everyone think that just because I wear a mask, Batman and I are best buddies?" I moan theatrically. "I mean, I'm lucky if I see him once in six months." I try to push the envelope back to Tyrone, but he's having none of that.

"Odds are," he says, "you'll see him before we will. When you do, give these to him." Just goes to show. It doesn't matter if you can pick locks, and phase through solid objects. Sooner or later, you are going to be trapped. I don't see any way out of this one besides taking the envelope, so I do. Then I see Nisha's hand disappear into the pocket of her baggy slacks. She pulls something out, wrapped in a clear ziplock, presses it into my hand, and whispers "This, too." I look at the object in my hand, and then I just have to hug the kid.

"If I see him," I hedge. She nods and they troop off.

After they're gone, Nightwing looks at me. "What did they give you?"

I pass him the envelope. Original art, get-well-soon cards, probably a poem or two. _I_'_d_ actually be touched. Batman, I don't know about. I show him the other thing. Nisha loves to sculpt with plasticene. You know, that colored reusable clay? What she's done is mold some of it into a (somewhat-lopsided) gray teddy bear, and stick a blue cape with a very familiar, pointy-eared cowl on it. Add a black bat in a (slightly-smudged) yellow circle on the chest, and it's obvious what she was trying for. Natalie gets a look on her face that can best be described as 'awww, it's _sooo_ cu-u-ute!' At least she spares me having to hear her say it. Nightwing turns away.

"What else do you have to tell me?" He asks roughly.

"Quite a bit," she says as she puts the baguette back in the long paper sleeve it came in, "but we can talk in the car."

"Couldn't we have done that in the first place?" he asks.

Natalie deliberately looks at the floor. "Truth?"

He spreads his hands apart in a 'hit me' gesture.

"I didn't know how you'd react, and I try not to startle people while they're driving." She looks at the roof. "Skylight okay for an exit?"

I shrug. It's faster. "Go. I'll lock up," I say. As soon as Nightwing clears the skylight, I push the door shut. I make a mental note to replace the grappling line I use to get roofward.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"Poor Callie!" I exclaim, trying not to laugh (and _almost_ succeeding). Natalie's just finished relating how Jaime figured out just who it was that Callie was taking care of.

"Poor Callie?" Dick echoes, also grinning. "Poor _Bruce_! First Robin figures it out, now some seven-year-old—"

"Well, he won't be seven until September," I correct automatically.

"That's even worse!"

"Let's just remember," Natalie says, "his mother wears a costume. His _uncle_ wears a costume. Four of his mother's five _sisters_ and his uncle's_ wife_ currently wear costumes, and the fifth sister _used _to. Add in the detective techniques _you_," she kicks the back of my seat pointedly (or should it be 'pointily'? That hurt!) "have been teaching him, Nancy Drew, and couple that with the fact that he reads Donald J. Sobol, Franklin W. Dixon, and whoever it was wrote those Three Investigators books, and all I can say is, 'it was elementary, my dear Watson'."

I slide my hand behind me, glad the seatbelt allows that much give, and rub the small of my back where she kicked me. Pointy shoes ought to be registered as deadly weapons. Then again, that would probably be another law we'd choose to ignore in our line of work.

"So," Dick says, "he's out of danger, now."

Natalie's voice turns serious. "Physically, yes."

"But?"

Natalie sighs. "Will you accept that I'm not trying to lay blame on anyone or anything except the venom-hopped bully who put Batman in ICU?"

Oh. She's using the "B" word. You know, if I wasn't standing in that line she was mentioning earlier, I could almost feel sorry for Bane. Nah, not really. I see Dick nod. I guess Natalie saw it from the back seat, too, because she continues. "You're not in Gotham so much these days, so maybe you don't know this, but he's been under a lot of stress even before Bane showed up, here. Arkham was just the cherry on the trouble sundae. When I say that he's not okay emotionally, I don't want you to think for one second that he's hysterical, or suicidal, or anything like that. But, even if Callie's theory about how we can treat his spinal injury bears out..." She thinks. "Ever mistime a jump several stories up? Or lose your grip on your jump-line?"

Dick thinks. "I must have been about five," he says, nodding slowly. "I was practicing, rehearsing for that night's performance with my parents. It was going to be my first time in front of the audience, and I was psyched. I was so excited I forgot to chalk my hands before climbing up the ladder."

I draw in my breath sharply. Big top lights are hot. Hot hands sweat. And sweaty hands slip.

He glances at me. "Yeah. Lucky for me the net was there."

"Did you get back on that ladder right away?" Natalie asks.

Dick laughs. Actually, it sounds more like a sniff than a laugh. "Yeah. My dad made me. He said if I didn't get back on, immediately, it was going to be harder the longer I put it off. You're saying..."

"I'm saying," Natalie agrees, "Bane shook him up. Badly. And in his case he hasn't had the option to get back up on that ladder. And, even assuming what Callie has in mind works, it's still going to take a while. And it's going to be frustrating."

I'll buy that. My first semester at GSU, I signed up for introductory Italian. I figured I know French, I know Spanish, so how hard can another Romance language be? Well, let's just say that the same fine points of grammar that tripped me up in French and Spanish proved problematic again. But the worst of it was having the mind of a university frosh stuck with the reading and spelling vocabulary of a kindergartener. _Or having the memories of being an Olympic caliber athlete and being stuck at the performance level of a raw novice._ I get it. And from the expression on Dick's face and the way he's nodding, so does he.

"So," Dick asks, "what are you suggesting?"

Natalie sighs. "I don't know what to tell you. Callie and Jaime have been there the most. Bran and Jill show up at the manor to sleep—"

"What?"

I'll field this one. "Callie's a single woman. She can't sleep under the same roof with a single man to whom she is not related, unless a married couple is also there. Bran and Jill fit that bill nicely."

Dick shakes his head. "Don't you find it hard to deal with all of these rules?"

"Sometimes," I admit. "I also find it hard to charge in against five-on-one odds, shift from ninjitsu to capoeira, and land solidly after doing a triple somersault from a fifth story window."

"Point taken."

"Dick?" I ask. He doesn't answer, but his posture tells me he heard me. "How are you holding up?"

"Me?" He asks lightly. "I'm fine."

And he almost sounds it, too. "Really?" I ask. Yeah, I'm needling. Sand-in-the-oyster Aaronson—that's me, remember?

He lets out a long breath. "No. I'm worried."

"About him." And duh, again.

"Things have been... tense... between us for a long time. We do okay as Batman and Nightwing."

I can infer the rest, but something (the wannabe social-worker in me, maybe?) makes me want to probe. "And Bruce and Dick?"

"Not so okay."

I don't think he wants to talk about it any further, and it's really none of my business, so I don't push. He surprises me.

"A couple of years ago we had a falling out. I... left before we had a chance to see if we could patch it up. That only made it worse." We're stopped at a traffic light as he turns to look directly at me. "And... I don't know whether my coming back now is going to help or hurt."

What the heck do you say to something like that? _Of course he wants to see you. You're his partner for crying out loud!_ But how do I know? How well do I know these people anyway? At least I have some idea, now, why for all his insistence on rushing back post haste, he waited for me to catch up, when I phased out of the car. He stopped at TRAFICK. Sure, I had to twist his arm for that, but if he was really gung-ho to get to the manor, there's no way I could have stopped him from barreling down to Bristol.

"That's rough," I say.

He goes on as if he hasn't heard me. "What do I say to him? If I acknowledge what happened, he'll say he doesn't want my pity. If I pretend nothing's happened, he'll—"

Natalie clears her throat. I crane my head to look at her. "Would you like a suggestion?" she asks diffidently.

He waves a hand in her direction. "Please."

Natalie's voice is about as soft as you can get it without it being a whisper. She knows how to project, though. "Tell him what you were wishing you'd had a chance to say to him, when you thought it might be too late."

Until STAR labs starts releasing stun-ray guns to the general public, we've always got Natalie.

When Dick doesn't say anything, she adds "you have a chance, now."

"You make it sound so easy."

Natalie sighs. "No, it's not easy. It's simple. There's a difference." The dashboard clock reads 9:57. Has it really been only a little over an hour? "Could you put the radio on, please? I'd like to hear the news."

Dick punches a button. Static. I guess whatever station he listens to in New York doesn't transmit this far. He starts adjusting the tuning knob. As music comes over the speaker, his hand freezes and he gets this incredulous look on his face.

..._Crumpled bits of paper  
Filled with imperfect thought  
Stilted conversations  
I'm afraid that's all we've got _

You say you just don't see it  
He says it's perfect sense  
You just can't get agreement  
In this present tense  
We all talk a different language  
Talking in defence

Whoa! Now that _is _scary.

_Say it loud, say it clear  
You can listen as well as you hear  
It's too late when we die  
To admit we don't see eye to eye_

_So we open up a quarrel  
Between the present and the past  
We only sacrifice the future  
It's the bitterness that lasts..._

You know, some people think that believing in a Supreme Being means you spend all your time praying, in whatever position your faith requires. Personally, I've outrun too many thunderstorms and blizzards not to know that Someone up there is watching out for me. And, considering what we were just talking about, what are the odds that WGEZ would be playing _that_ song, at _this _time?

Dick turns the dial abruptly, and almost misses the exit for the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge. I tune out the news. I realize that I'm less than twenty minutes away from facing Callie. I think I'd rather face Bruce. Scratch that. I _know _I'd rather face Bruce. He might chew me out, but with him it would be more professional than personal, know what I mean?

Dick turns off on a dirt side road instead of continuing straight to the house. I blink as the car heads behind a billboard, then descends down a gentle rocky incline. And then, we're underground, in a dimly lit tunnel, which leads to an only slightly less dimly lit cave. I'll have to ask the others if they came in this way, the last time. Back then, Natalie and I waltzed in the front gate.

He parks. We get out. We pick our way around the obstacle course of test-tube shards, splintered beams, eviscerated audiocassettes, and scattered disks and papers. The place looks like Maybelle's bedroom, the time she was wondering what would happen if she created a cyclone indoors—just a teeny-tiny one; those were her exact words. None of us comment.

Natalie senses someone else's presence a split-second before we do. Telepaths are notoriously hard to surprise. It's Dick, however, who calls out "Alfred?"

The lights come on, giving us more details of what transpired down here. Alfred stands halfway down the stairs, holding a wooden baseball bat. I calmly raise my hands. If he doesn't remember me, I'd rather not be the cause of any problems.

"Master Dick?" he asks, moving quickly down the rest of the stairs. "It is so good to see you again!"

I edge my way up the stairs. It's better to get this over with. As I open the door to the den, I hear my brother's voice.

"...As if nothing happened."

"We need her," Callie is saying.

"We needed her five nights ago! Maybelle was right, you know. Natalie dislocated her shoulder saving an artifact that Tabitha would have phased—"

What's this? Natalie didn't say anything about that.

"You knocked her down to benchwarmer status until Ali confirmed she was cleared for active duty. Fine. Maybelle gets a little over-enthusiastic and nearly kills someone. Your threaten to suspend her. Great call as always. But Tabitha... Tabitha doesn't even bother showing up to lend a hand, no word, no phone call. Finally, around three a.m., _today_, she leaves a message on Bronwen's cell, and you want to just pretend she was acting on your instructions—"

I'm moving slowly down the hallway, following the voices, as my heart starts pounding.

"Whether I gave the order or not, she's my responsibility."

"Bruce's saying so doesn't make it so."

_Bruce_ blamed _her_ for _my_ road trip? Oh boy. Can you be put up for adoption when you're over eighteen?

The voices are coming from the room on the far left. I quietly turn the knob, and push the door open. Callie's facing me. We make eye contact almost immediately. Bran's back is to me. He continues to rant. "Look, Callie, I hate to do this to you, but right now, if I can't depend on a person, I'm not so sure I want to work alongside of her. In fact, I'm not sure that I _can_ work alongside of her."

Callie gives no indication that she's seen me. "Brandon," she says, "are you asking me to choose between you and her?"

Brandon hesitates before saying, "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am. And Cal? Look, before you divvy us up into teams, you might want to make sure whoever you stick her with is alright with that."

"I see."

She looks over Bran's shoulder at me. I wish I had a mirror so I'd know what I look like, about now. No. I don't. I guess Bran notices her looking past him, because he turns around and sees me standing there. He glances back over to Callie, and says "Later." Then, he walks past me as if I wasn't there.

Somehow my legs carry me over to the kitchen table, and I grope blindly for a chair. I rest my elbow on the table and sit there, my thumb and index finger at the outer corners of my eyebrows. "How badly did I mess up?" I ask rhetorically.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

**(Dick)**

"_Tell him what you were wishing you'd had a chance to say to him, when you thought it might be too late."_ Kensai's words echo in my thoughts as I mount the staircase to the second floor. Sure, Kensai. Anytime. Maybe that works for you and Silver Dragon, but I kind of have my doubts. Or maybe I'm just scared. I can't help thinking about last year.

I got back from halfway across the universe to discover that while I was gone, Jason Todd died. It hit me hard. Not that I was especially close with the kid, but that's just it. He was a kid. He wore the Robin suit—and he died. He wasn't more than fourteen, if that. All of a sudden, I had a new appreciation for why Bruce went ballistic when the Joker shot me, months before that. And I knew that if Jason's death was a shock for me, it _had_ to be tearing him apart. So, never mind that I still had a cast on my foot and was hobbling around with a cane. I made the drive up to Gotham and waited for Bruce in the cave. What was I thinking? Did I expect him to start crying on my shoulder? Bruce? Grayson, get real. He was on the defensive from square one—started by telling me that it was luck, not skill, that had kept me alive as his partner, and ended by slugging me--hard enough to bruise my cheekbone and split my lip in a single punch--telling me that he was never going to have another partner again, andordering me to give my key to Alfred on my way out. As if I didn't have a duplicate. As if he hadn't taught me how to pick locks and bypass any security system on the planet, and a couple on Watchtower.

Anyway, apart from being afraid of what I might see, I'm not looking forward to any kind of replay of that scene. _So, turn around, Grayson. Go back to New York and wait until he calls you_. Who do I think I'm kidding? Yeah, I'm going up there. I'd be slightly more eager if I knew for a fact that Two-Face, Joker, and Brother Blood were waiting in the room instead of Bruce (if you think I'm kidding, you obviously haven't met him), but I'm going up there.

I push open the door to the master bedroom without knocking first. I don't want to wake him, if he's asleep. He isn't. He's sitting at his writing desk, his back to me. Eating. _In a wheelchair._ Did I think Kensai was lying to me? Or was it just that if I didn't see it for myself, I wouldn't have to believe it? Whatever. Now I've seen. Now, I'm convinced.

Bruce finishes what's in his mouth, before rolling away from the table to face me. He looks at me. World's greatest poker face. "I didn't expect to see _you_ again," he rasps. Where have I heard those words... that tone... before?

Suddenly, I realize that just because he's still using the same script doesn't mean I have to. "Liar." The word somehow manages to bypass all of the normal safeguards I have against engaging my mouth before putting my brain into gear, and it seems to echo in this strangely quiet space. _Okayyy. I am now officially toast. _I brace for the explosion.

"I... beg your pardon?" Kids, if you've ever wondered what the term 'dangerously calm' means, wonder no further. Just play back Exhibit A.

"You knew Kensai was going to fill me in on what happened," I say teasingly. "She said she wouldn't have been able to tell me how badly you were hurt unless you'd given her permission. Ergo," I smile, "you knew I was coming. Ergo," I feel the smile growing wider "you were expecting to see me. Ergo," I say triumphantly, "_you_ are a liar." If he's going to slug me this time, I'm going to bloody well _deserve_ it.

He looks up at me. That's a switch. I've grown some since he took me in at age eight, but he's still got four inches on me, or would have if he were standing up. He rolls over to me, stopping about a foot away. "Leave," he says.

Here's the problem. He's using a voice that can chill your blood faster than one of Victor Fries' cold guns. Bat-classic. His eyes back up the voice. But... his body language... is... conflicted. So. What do I believe? My gut tells me he doesn't want me to go. My cheekbone, on the other hand, is pointing out that the other two gauges would seem to indicate that a strategic retreat is called for. Two against one. Majority rules. Then again, who ever heard of a 'cheekbone instinct'?

I bend down to his eye level. "No." No explanation. No tears. No attempt to pull him into a hug. Just that one little syllable.

And it gets him. "What. Did. You. Say?"

"No," I repeat.

Ooh. I think I know what Kensai meant about Bruce not being okay emotionally. I mean, I sort of knew my saying that was going to get him angry, but I wasn't expecting his face to get _that_ shade of red.

"How... _dare_... you!" Now he swings. You know, I don't think I actually logically planned this out beforehand. I mean on some level, I must have believed he might have needed some kind of catharsis, or some outlet for all of that free-floating frustration, and I thought I could handle that. So I don't know which of us is more surprised when my left hand lunges forward and immobilizes his right wrist before he can connect: me—because I was sure that I was going to heroically take that punch, or him—because he didn't think I'd be able to block it. I _shouldn't_ have been able to block it.

He snarls and tries to connect with his other arm. Instinctively, I catch that wrist, too. He strains to break loose, but I've got the leverage. He taught me that.

Uh-oh. Now, I'm stuck. He's got one more move he can make: butt his head into my face. If I dodge it, he'll be off-balance and, if he didn't set the brake on the chair, he'll probably propel himself out of it and land on top of me. Not good. Kensai said he had internal injuries on top of everything else. I'm not sure whether his struggling to get off of me and my struggling to _get_ him off of me could reopen something. And the only other way out of his range is to release his wrists. Again, some instinct makes me decide against it. Which leaves me with one other move. I close my eyes, so I won't see it coming, brace for pain, and I wait for it.

And I wait for it. And I wait for it. _And I wait for it_.

Okay, now I've heard—actually, I know from personal experience, that when you're waiting for something bad to happen, time seems to slow to a crawl. This seems more like a snail's pace. And then, I feel it. He lunges forward...

...And his forehead slumps against the juncture between my neck and shoulder. He stops struggling against my grip, too. Hesitantly, I open my eyes. Slowly, I release his wrists. As he lowers his hands, I place mine gently on his arms, and lean my chin against his temple.

I don't know how long we sit like that. He doesn't cry. I don't tell him everything's okay. Because we both know it isn't. And we both know it is. And so, we don't have to say anything about it at all.


	12. Chapter 11: Instincts and Rationalizatio...

Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later. 

A/N: I am using my high school biology lessons, what I could glean off of a Google search, (check out http:www.spinalcord.ar.gov/General/disablility.html for my main source) and an overactive imagination. I am not now, nor never have been a neurologist, neurosurgeon, or physician. All I hope is, that if my theory flies in the face of medical fact, someone with the necessary knowledge can help me to come up with a way in which this _could_ work.

A/N: **_Bold italics_** are meant to convey telepathic communication. .

**Chapter 11**

**Instincts and Rationalizations**

_Friday, 3:20 P.M._

"A spinal cord injury," Callie began, "occurs when there is damage to the spinal cord, which then results in the loss of the ability to transmit messages to and from the brain." She was repeating this primarily for the benefit of Sophia, Maybelle, Tabitha, Jean-Paul, and Dick. Alison, Natalie, Alfred and Tim had been in the library when she had first explained it for Bruce's benefit.

"So far, I think we're all clear. However," she said, brightening, "when we consider the following factors," she raised her index finger, "stabilization and telekinetic immobilization of the vertebrae," her middle finger joined the first, "prompt administration of Decadron and," she raised her ring finger, "overall physical health of patient prior to the injury, the prospects look somewhat different."

Dick raised his hand. Callie glanced at him. Her lips curved upwards as she nodded to him. "This isn't a classroom. Feel free to call out."

Dick grinned his acknowledgment. "You said 'telekinetic immobilization'. What exactly is that?"

Callie blushed. "Me trying my darnedest to hold the vertebrae together mentally, so that they'd heal straight. Also, as you'd expect given the..." she pursed her lips together angrily, before continuing, "...nature of the fracture, the processes," she paused, "that is to say, the knobby parts of the vertebrae closest to the skin and furthest from the internal organs, were pressing against the spinal cord. _Boruch Hashem_, they didn't sever it, but one of the things that I had to do was pull the pieces of the two vertebrae back into position, assemble them, and hold them in place until—"she looked quickly over to Bruce, "—your body's normal healing process took over."

Dick blinked. "So, you don't have to see what you're affecting?"

"Not exactly. Bruce," she focused on him, again, "when we first met, I told you that although I couldn't lift much more than my own body weight (and, by the way, I've improved since then), my 'fine-motor skills' were such that I could perform alchemy mentally by moving protons from one atom's nucleus to another. Nobody on the team has microscopic vision. I've never seen a single atom. But, if I can visualize what I want to do, that works. The more correct my visualization, the more effective my telekinesis is. Here, I had eight years of premed and med combined, plus x-rays to draw on.

"So," she continued after a moment, "the bones are healing nicely. Which brings us to the nerves, themselves. And this is where things get dicey. Jill?"

The illusionist rose to her feet, staring intently at the space immediately to her sister-in-law's left. She made no gesture, and uttered no word, but instantly a life-sized textbook diagram of the human nervous system appeared next to Callie. Callie smiled. "Thanks. This is basic biology, but in case anyone needs a refresher, or," she smiled at her nephew, "hasn't taken it yet but is hoping to learn something without letting on that he's paying attention, and needs a general grounding," (Jaime clapped both hands over his mouth, trying to contain himself) "here we go."

She pointed to the spinal column on the three-dimensional model. Instantly, Jill illuminated it, so that it appeared as a white glow against a green, humanoid figure. "The spinal cord," she began, "is a bundle of nerves and fibers that transmits messages, in the form of electrical impulses, to and from the brain. Should anything happen to interrupt the flow of these impulses"—she was back to the steady voice that she had developed as an intern, in order to deliver potentially disturbing news to a patient or his or her family—"in many cases the results are permanent loss of sensation, and paralysis.

But," she continued, "_what if the nerves could be reactivated?"_

Silence greeted her. She continued. "Let us say, for example, that a small, intensely-focused, electrical surge could be administered at the correct juncture, or junctures—essentially, a jumpstart."

Dick shook his head. He remembered a conversation he'd had with Barbara, not long after the Joker had crippled her. "If you're talking about electro-convulsive therapy, isn't that a little too risky?"

Callie nodded. "It is, and I'm not. ECT wouldn't be as effective as any of us would like, at any rate. What I'm suggesting, to best of my knowledge, has never been tried before. It'll be a team effort, and the risks involved will need to be agreed upon by the team." The look she turned on Bruce was compassionate, but held no pity. Her voice was resolute. "I didn't tell you everything, before. There wasn't much point in doing so until all the necessary parties were here. Now that they are, I have to advise you," her gaze panned the room, taking them all in, "that this could be dangerous—not so much for you, Bruce," she said quickly, "but for those of us who are instrumental to the procedure. And everyone I'm about to name is essential. So, we can't work with a simple majority, this time. We need to be unanimous." Sober nods greeted her announcement. Still she hesitated.

"Callie," Brandon said, "we can't make a decision if we don't have the facts."

Callie smiled. "Actually, Bran, you aren't one of the ones who's going to have to make the decision. Your point is taken, however." She continued briskly. "Here's who, and what, we're working with."

"Sophie. We'll need your x-ray vision to see what we're doing. Maybelle. You're going to provide the necessary electrical spark, and Tabitha will be phasing that spark to the correct point."

Maybelle shifted position. "Ummm, Callie" she began, staring at the floor, "you know, it sounds like you're talking about a really tight margin for error, here. I mean, if my lightning ball is a fraction too big, or we miss the right place, we won't have a second chance." Unconsciously, a hand flew to the string of seed pearls she wore around her neck, fiddling with the small translucent beads. "Look," she continued, "I know I get a little overconfident, but this time, I've got to face up and admit that I just might not be able to fine-tune my abilities enough for what you're asking."

"While we're discussing drawbacks," Sophie added, "I'm not altogether sure I can tell the difference between a nerve and a fiber. It's like telling me to weed a garden when I have no idea what the desired crop is."

Callie's expression did not waver. "Simple answer for both of you: _I can_. We're going to need to work together quickly and precisely. Natalie is going to link us up. For the duration of each session, we'll need to think and move as one, because," she looked at Maybelle, "like you've just said, we won't have a lot of wiggle-room if things start going wrong."

Maybelle frowned. "You're talking about something more intense than a usual psi-link, aren't you?" She did not wait for a reply. "This is going to be more like a hive mentality."

Callie nodded. "Exactly. And, if I'm going to be focusing on 'fine-tuning' and concentrating on my medical skills, I don't feel fully comfortable gestalting our abilities. That's where Natalie comes in."

Bruce had been listening to the exchange with an expression of mingled hope and horror. "What are the drawbacks?"

Callie looked at him. "We've never done this before, so we're in uncharted waters, here. It's possible that after all of this buildup, it won't work. If I can't control Maybelle's talent," she grimaced, "I haven't lied to you yet, and now's a heck of a time to start. It will do more harm than good." That had to be the understatement of the century. If the electrical charge was powerful enough, it would kill him.

Bruce waved a hand in dismissal. "We went over that yesterday. What are the drawbacks for _you_?"

Callie was silent for a moment. "Maybelle has a much stronger than normal resistance to mind control and mind invasion. This linkup won't be... easy for her. If she puts up too good a fight, we won't be able to merge. Given Natalie's past, she doesn't _attack_ telepathically. What I'm asking now is about as close as she's willing to venture to that precipice."

"But, I _am_ willing to venture that far," Natalie stated simply.

"If Maybelle fights you?" Callie asked.

Natalie hesitated. "Let's cross that bridge when we come to it."

Brandon broke in. "Last exit before bridge, five hundred feet and closing. Can we try to keep the improvisation to a minimum?"

Natalie sighed, frowning. "Fine. If she fights me, I'll back down. We'll try to work this with her... outside the mix. It'll be trickier to do, but easier to abort if things start going wrong."

"Is that all?" Bruce asked.

Callie shook her head. "No. That's not all." She turned to Tim. "When I linked minds with you, I basically became a... a back-seat driver in your head. I was looking through your eyes, but trying very hard to stay out of your thoughts."

"You picked up my name, though."

"And apologized for it. It was fairly close to the surface of your mind. Later, I can show you how to fix that, if you like. What we're going to do this time will be more invasive. It's not just a question of merging different thought processes and personalities, it has to do with perceptions, as well."

Tim snapped his fingers. "Sophie's EM-band perception."

"Exactly. And Natalie's and my combined telepathy. I don't know whether the rest of us will be able to filter out the extra input." She glanced at her sister. "It took you _how long_ before you managed?"

Sophie had gone slightly pale. "It was about six years before I could truly say I had." She frowned. "Though I _must_ have achieved some measure of partial control earlier, or I don't know how I kept myself out of a padded cell. Sensory overload and sensory deprivation may be at polar extremes, but some of the side effects are common to both."

Bruce shook his head slowly. "I can't ask you to do that."

Callie raised an eyebrow. "Are you ordering us not to?"

The question seemed to hang there. He closed his eyes. He was aware of Dick's hand, resting unobtrusively on his upper arm. It tightened for a second, then relaxed. Bruce placed his opposite hand over Dick's and squeezed briefly. He knew the younger man would back him no matter what he said next. One word. All he had to say was 'yes', and it would be over. Callie and her siblings would not risk their collective sanity, and perhaps, all their lives, for him. One word. And it would _all_ be over. Permanently. He would never be Batman again. He would never walk again. But they would be safe.

_He would be safe._ That was what Alfred had said, in the cave, when he had first come out of his coma. "You're safe, _now_, Sir." And again, when they had transferred him to the upstairs bedroom, and he, still medicated, but coherent enough to understand his condition, had succumbed to despair, and reviewed, out loud, his mistakes, his regrets. Alfred, trying, he knew, to give some measure of comfort, had repeated "You're home now, Sir—you're safe." And, for the moment, so was Psion Force. How could he be so selfish, that he would even consider allowing these people to run the kind of risk Callie was suggesting? Unbidden, something she had related the day before resurfaced—something Bronwen had said to her, once.

_You seem to be saying that you're the only one entitled to risk his life. What makes **you** so blasted special?_

Answer: _I'm Batman_. And although he and Bronwen had barely exchanged a dozen words, somehow, he could guess what her response to that assertion might be.

_And Psion Force is challenging that assertion? Precisely how? Sounds more like they're backing you, actually. _

He considered. Whatever else these people were, they were emphatically not thrill-seekers. Callie had considered the risks before broaching the subject. The others had voiced concerns about the ramifications. At the same time, nobody had suggested not doing it. Was he rationalizing? Was he trying to find a justification, beyond self-centeredness for permitting this experiment? He wanted to walk again. Was it weakness to admit it? There was a possibility that his condition could be cured. Was he truly being noble in refusing the treatment? Was he afraid that after building up his hopes, the treatment wouldn't work? Or... was he afraid that it _would_? For over a decade, his life had been Batman's. No. His life had been _Batman_. It had been one crisis, one fistfight, one loss after another. Of course the stress had been getting to him recently—how could it not have? And, in the midst of the pain of the last few days, there had been a strange, almost shocking relief. That maybe, he could finally relax. Was _that_ wrong?

He opened his eyes and looked at the young man standing next to him, thought of Dick putting on the cape and cowl. Slowly, he shook his head. Bane was still out there. That, in a nutshell, was what it came down to. He could either ask _part_ of Psion Force to risk their lives—yes, and his also, admittedly—trying to heal him, now, or he could condemn _all_ of Psion Force, plus Nightwing, Robin, and Azrael, to risk their lives against Bane, later. Eventually, inevitably, it would come to that. Bane had come to Gotham solely to wrest it from its Dark Knight Protector. He had been successful, but Gotham wasn't a game, to be relinquished once played to its conclusion. Bane was here, and he was staying. And, for all Psion Force's power and experience, it wasn't lost on Bruce that they rarely dealt with his 'rogue's gallery,' preferring to concentrate on the sort of criminal that ended in Blackgate, not Arkham. They would adapt—if the past few nights were any indication, they _were_ adapting—but how would they fare against the likes of the Joker? _Coward. Ask yourself the real question. Can they handle themselves against Bane, when **you** couldn't?_

Maybe, he _was_ rationalizing—trying to find some altruistic reason to allow these people—barely more than children, some of them—to try this. Maybe, all he really wanted was a rematch. He had never been one to back away from a challenge before, and it wasn't in him to start now. One—no, two—things he knew: _he did not want to be safe_, not like this—and Psion Force had come to the same conclusion. He had made his decision. But he couldn't say the words. He looked down. "I," he began hoarsely, then coughed to clear his throat. "I'm not telling you that. Take your vote. I'll wait out in the hall." He gestured to the others, the non-Psion Forcers to join him.

As the door closed behind them, Tim placed his hand on Bruce's wrist. Bruce looked up at him questioningly. Tim met his gaze. "I haven't been around that much," he said in a low voice. "Just wanted to say 'sorry'."

Bruce placed his free, right hand over the boy's. It didn't take the world's greatest detective to deduce that Tim had enough on his plate, coming to terms with his _father's_ condition. It wasn't that astonishing that the boy would have been absent from the manor. In fact, it was surprising that he had been here as much as he had. Bruce forced a smile, as the fingers of his left hand tapped lightly on the arm of the wheelchair. "It takes some getting used to," he said.

"Yeah."

The door opened to admit Brandon into the hallway. "They'll be ready for you in about five minutes."

Dick raised an eyebrow. "That was fast."

Brandon shrugged. "There wasn't really all that much to talk about. Oh, one thing Callie might have forgotten to mention: she said you probably won't notice results, right away."

Tim looked up. "Did she say how long?"

"She didn't, and I didn't ask her. Sorry. Um... you couldn't, by any chance, tell me where Fradon Creek Road is, could you?"

Dick frowned, thinking. "Yeah, that's west of here, maybe three miles. I could show you on a map."

Bran nodded. "So that's... what? About a forty-five minute walk?"

"Something like that," Dick agreed. "Why?"

"Anshei Kovnitz," Bruce broke in.

"Hunh?" Dick started.

Brandon grinned. "Somehow, I'm not surprised you know." For Dick's benefit, he added, "according to the Yellow Pages, there is a grand total of _one_ synagogue in this neck of the woods, and the Anshei Kovnitz is it. And, being as today is Friday, and _Shabbes_—that's Sabbath to _you_ starts at sundown, I need a place within walking distance to go for services."

Tim glanced up. "You call forty-five minutes 'walking distance?'"

"I've run for more than sixty minutes, in chain mail, with a twenty-five pound sword strapped to my waist, getting tangled in my legs. So, yes, as a matter of fact I do. Next question?"

"I thought you wear your sword strapped to your _back_."

"I do, _now_."

Bruce drew a deep breath. "The rest of you, wait out here. I think I'd better go in."

Brandon sighed. "Yeah, I guess you'd better. Oh, Bruce?"

Bruce paused.

"Could I ask what your mother's name was?"

Bruce turned his head, incredulous. "Why would you want to know?"

Bran smiled slowly. "Not meaning to get all holy-roller on you, but do you really think we're going to handle this alone?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued. "We're trying Callie's idea, because it could work. But, if it does—or doesn't it won't be Callie's doing." He looked skyward. "That didn't sound like it made sense. Look, if you go in for surgery, and it's a success, are you going to thank the _scalpel_, or the doctor? Most folks would agree that the scalpel is only the instrument. Let's just say, we take it a step further and believe that healing comes from one source only, and the doctor is as much an instrument as the scalpel. Make no mistake, the doctor is the _correct_ instrument, but what Callie's going to do, whether it works or not, won't be due to her genius or lack thereof."

Bruce absorbed that. "And you need my mother's name because..."

Brandon looked away, trying to give the older man some measure of privacy. "When one says prayers for a sick person, one uses the full given names of that person and his or her mother's full given names. Just because the rest of us aren't needed for the procedure doesn't mean we can't make ourselves useful in other ways." He turned slowly back to Bruce, who was now sitting rigidly in the chair, face expressionless. Something in the eyes, however, perhaps due to some trick of the light, seemed infinitesimally softer.

"Martha," he whispered. "My mother's name was Martha."

Brandon nodded. "Any middle name? For either of you?"

Bruce shook his head.

"Alright then," the younger man said gently. "Go on in. _Refuah shaleima._"

Bruce opened the door. On the threshold, he looked back over his shoulder at Brandon. "_Todah... Todah rabbah_." Then he wheeled himself through.

Dick caught his eye. "What did you two just say?"

"I wished him a complete recovery. He thanked me." Brandon smiled, shaking his head. "I can't _believe_ he knows Hebrew!"

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

_Moments earlier..._

Natalie focused on Maybelle. She and Callie had linked effortlessly and instantly, and Tabitha had allowed her mind to slip into the other two as easily as she could allow her body to slip into a wall. Maybelle, however, was proving a challenge.

**_I'm sorry!_** Her older sister flung out the thought for the fifth time in two minutes. It was a reflex, Natalie _knew_ it was a reflex, but it was still frustrating. She drew a deep breath. If the link didn't work fast, she was going to push too hard. She thought about trying to bring Sophie in first, but didn't feel up to coping with a whole new batch of visual stimuli while simultaneously pulling in a resistant mind. Dimly she was aware of Callie sending a calming thought through the link.

Interesting. It wasn't that the other consciousnesses were subsumed within her own. She was not 'possessing' her sisters. But, if a normal psi-link was analogous to creating a gateway between two minds, what she was doing now was like wheeling back a retractable wall. That was the general idea, of course—a reduction of barriers to promote maximum efficiency—they all understood it. But Maybelle, much as she wanted to, could not lower her defenses for the fraction of a second that was required. It reminded Natalie of... hold on, that was an idea...

_**This is payback for every time you've told me not to blink when you're trying to put eyeliner on me, isn't it?** _She projected the idea lightly at her sister.

Mental laughter greeted her assertion, as Maybelle briefly relaxed her guard. Seizing her window, Natalie implemented the link.

_**Sneaky,** _Maybelle said within her mind.

_**Effective, though**. _And now, it was Sophie's turn.

Ohhhhh, this was not fun. A kaleidoscope of colors and indescribable 'not-colors' assaulted her, disorienting her. All Natalie wanted to do was pull back, abort, curl up in the fetal position. Too much. Too many lights and waves. Too many thoughts in her head—in their heads—it was just too much...

_**CALM!** _The thought insinuated itself forcefully within the other three minds, shocking them out of their panic. This was why Natalie had wanted her in the link, in the first place, Maybelle realized. If it were only a question of controlling the size of the lightning ball, she wouldn't have needed to be part of this gestalt. But Sophie's x-ray vision _did_ need to be in the mix—and the very thing that had made Maybelle one of the chief liabilities to the plan also made her its greatest asset. Her mind was treating the sensory invasion as it would any other attack on her mind... on her _perceptions_—by setting up barriers, by giving her time to cope with the new input. She could still function but she was doing so instinctively. In order to show the others what needed to be done, she had to understand for herself. Smoothly, confidently, Maybelle reached out to Sophia._ **Show me**, _she propelled the thought at her oldest sister_. **Show US. Filter. Show us how.**_ Understanding, Sophie threw an image back at her. It was a common black-and-white drawing, one typically found in books of optical illusions—a square containing the image of a wine cup on a black background. When one looked at the picture in a different way, however, it became two dark faces, noses and lips nearly touching, with white space in the middle. Faces... or cup... the two pictures were one, depending on what the mind willed to the surface. Faces... or cup... or visible light... or x-rays... or infrared... bring one aspect to the fore, and ignore the others unless and until they become necessary.

Understanding, and relief, spread through the link. They had it, now. They could function. They were ready. "Brandon," Natalie said, "tell Bruce 'five minutes'. We just want to run through procedure once."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Bronwen rose, as Bruce made his way in. "I hope you don't mind if Ali and I stay here for the duration. After this is over, we may need to help break the link."

Bruce grunted, unsure whether he could trust his voice after what Brandon had said. Behind him, he was aware of Jill leaving with Jaime in tow, just as he recognized the footfalls entering behind him as belonging to Dick. "Thought I told you to stay outside."

"Actually, you told me to _wait_ outside," Dick said innocently. "I waited thirty seconds, and thought maybe that was long enough."

"It won't interfere," Natalie spoke up. At least, it sounded very much like Natalie's voice, but it was lower pitched, and the cadence was somewhat deeper. "The decision, of course, remains yours."

Dick took Bruce's silence as an invitation to stay. He noticed that Bronwen and Alison each held a small clothbound hard-covered book, with Hebrew letters on the cover. Without asking, Bronwen extended a larger volume to him. He recognized the Psalter as his eyes automatically flicked to the shelf it had come from and noted the empty space.

At one point, Barbara had come over to help him with a high school paper, and made a point of thanking Alfred for arranging the library in 'Dewey decimal order.' At the time, she had just made assistant librarian, and had been, perhaps, a bit too eager to share her newfound knowledge, but Dick had to admit that, to this day, he still had a pretty good idea of where to find any given volume in the manor library, thanks in no small part to that conversation.

"Please, make yourselves comfortable, both of you," Natalie was saying. Her tone carried a subtle authority, which the others in the room understood immediately to mean that she spoke for her other siblings in the link. In a very real sense, the others in the link were speaking _through_ her."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I thought you'd want me to lie down."

Natalie smiled. "We... I..." she shook her head, "somebody needs to invent a new pronoun for this, I think. Given that in the link, there is one who can phase and one who can see what must be done, your position is immaterial. Please. Relax." The smile on Natalie's face seemed like it belonged more on Callie's. "Try."

Dick took the book from Bronwen. "His mother's name was Martha," he said softly.

"Thanks." Bronwen whipped out a pad and jotted something down on five lines, ripped off the sheet, and handed it to him: Bina bas Penina, Callanit bas Penina, Aviva bas Penina, Naamah bas Penina, Golda bas Penina.

"What's this?"

Bronwen waved a hand, indicating the gestalt. "Their Hebrew names. 'Bas' means 'daughter of,' and our mother's name was 'Penina.' It's risky for them too," she reminded him. "In Bruce's case, it would be 'Bruce ben Martha'." She pointed to the book. "Start at the beginning, just reciting them loud enough so you can hear them. Keep Bruce and my sisters in mind. Don't worry if you can't, all the time, it takes practice. When you finish the thirtieth one, start over. Between the five of us, we'll cover the entire book."

Dick nodded, not entirely understanding. Maybe, he didn't have to understand. Maybe all he had to do was _something_. "How did you know I was coming in?" He asked.

"I didn't. But odds were somebody was going to follow him in here."

Dick shook his head. "He didn't want that."

Bronwen shrugged. "Notice that didn't stop you for long." She smiled. "If the odds hadn't played out, Ali and I would have done forty-five apiece the first time, and if we had to do a second round, we would have done thirty. Bran and Jill would have done the same only in reverse. It would have balanced."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Bruce heard none of this. He sat, watching with detached interest as Maybelle formed a miniscule sphere, perhaps the diameter of a grain of millet. Although the chestnut-haired woman had created the sphere, it was Callie's green eyes that screwed shut in concentration. As Bruce looked on, a faint nimbus surrounded the tiny globe. Tabitha stretched out her hand, and took it between thumb and forefinger. _Of course_, he realized. _She has to become intangible in order to maneuver the orb—telekinetic propulsion must not have any effect on the ephemeral. But if she and the globe are _both_ intangible, then she would need a buffer of some kind, or the electricity would affect her, too._ It really was fascinating.

Tabitha circled behind the wheelchair, using Sophie's eyes and Callie's guidance, while Natalie monitored. Bruce thought he felt a shiver as her hand passed into him, but that could have been his imagination.

"Brace," Natalie said, her voice startlingly loud above the low murmur of three voices reciting, two in Hebrew, one in English. "Telekinetic forcefield will drop in three... two... one..."

There was no pain. There was a vibration, which seemed to set his teeth on edge, and a not-unpleasant warmth that traveled up his spine. But below the point of injury, there was nothing. It hadn't worked.

He looked up to see Maybelle readying a second sphere. Again, the procedure was repeated. Again, the results were the same. After the sixth attempt, Natalie waited for him to meet her gaze. "We will leave this for now. We may need additional sessions later."

Bruce tried to hide his disappointment, as the five disengaged from the link, shaky and disoriented, but no more the worse for the experience. "You tried," he said quietly.

"And may have succeeded," Callie reminded him. "We've never done this before and the effects could be delayed."

"Or non-existent," he said flatly.

"That's possible," Callie admitted, "but I'm not ready to go that far yet." She favored him with a penetrating look. "You shouldn't be, either," she stated.

Bruce managed a nod, before he wheeled himself from the room.

Dick looked up from the Psalter. "Did you mean what you just said?" he asked, "or were you just hoping against hope?"

Callie blinked solemnly. "Yes, to the former. As for the latter, I've done nothing else since Alfred and Jean-Paul brought him into the ambulance. So far, he's survived, he's out of ICU, and, all things considered, in better condition than we've had any right to expect. He's pulling out of his depression, and, yesterday, he actually ate three full meals. Right now, I'd say 'hoping against hope'—not to mention some old-fashioned prayer, seems to be holding a fairly impressive track record."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

It was perhaps an hour later that Dick came across Sophie walking along one of the hallways on the first floor, opening doors, peering quickly into the rooms and then shutting the doors firmly again. "Looking for something?" he asked.

"Someone," Sophie corrected. "_Shabbes_ comes in late, in the summer. I wanted to put Jaime down for a nap so he'd be able to stay up and have supper with the rest of us." She smiled. "Of course, I know he's probably with Bruce, but after this afternoon, I don't know if Bruce would really want to see me, or any of us, so fast. I guess I'm exploring other avenues first. Silly, really. I may as well head up."

Dick stopped her. "Don't worry. I'll check if he's in there." He bounded up the stairs.

Sophie followed. "By-the-bye," she said, "lead paint really isn't that healthy."

"You're not the first person Bruce with x-ray vision that Bruce has ever met."

Opening the door to the room, Dick stopped. Jaime was sitting on Bruce's lap, in the wheelchair, eyes closed, mouth open, head leaning against Bruce's arm and shoulder, sound asleep. Bruce put his finger to his lips. Dick grinned. "I think you'd both be more comfortable if he was in his own bed," he whispered, trying not to laugh as he bent down to take the boy.

Bruce noted his ward's amusement, and allowed himself a small half-smile. "Thanks," he said. He tried to flex his shoulder, and grimaced. "My arm seems to have fallen asleep."

Dick smiled back sympathetically. "I'm just going to pass him to his mother, and I'll be right back," he said softly.

He returned to the room to see Bruce sitting where he had left him, now with a stunned expression on his face.

"Bruce?" Then, more sharply "Bruce!"

No answer.

Dick was getting nervous. "Bruce, what's wrong?" Should he call Callie?

"Bruce, answer me!" He gripped both shoulders. If he didn't get a response in about ten seconds he'd—

Bruce placed the palms of his hands flat over Dick's arms. His voice was barely audible as he whispered, "My foot seems to have fallen asleep, too."


	13. Chapter 12: The Meal's the Thing

Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later. 

**Chapter 12**

**The Meal's the Thing**

_5:45 P.M._

The fragrances of fresh bread and roasted chicken mingled with those of soup, potatoes, and something involving peaches and cinnamon.

"Shall I shut the door, Callie?" Maybelle asked. She gestured to the massive oak door at the end of the corridor, which separated the wing from the rest of the manor. It was currently wide open, allowing the aforementioned aromas to permeate the rest of the house.

Callie glanced at the long table, now spread with a white cloth, and covered with a layer of clear plastic. Jill was in the process of setting down the Royal Chinette plates and Dixie cutlery. She noted the two extra place settings and smiled approval at her brother's wife.

"Leave it," she told Maybelle. "It's the only way I can think to phrase the invitation."

Alfred, in the midst of spooning beet horseradish onto the fishplates, glanced up at that. "My compliments on your... perspicacity, Miss Callie."

A smile flickered briefly on her lips. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Pennyworth."

"You don't really need to do that, you know," she added, gesturing to the plates. "There'll be plenty of extra hands around in short order."

"Perhaps," Alfred admitted, "but, if you'll pardon my saying so, you yourself seem less than meticulous in assuring that you merely do what's necessary."

Callie lowered her eyes, conceding the point. At that moment, she heard a door shut down the hallway, and recognized the soft footfalls padding down the carpet as belonging to Natalie. Looking up only confirmed it. "How're you feeling, Sweetheart?"

"Headache," Natalie replied. "Major one. Where's the ASA?"

"Where would it normally be?" Callie countered.

Her younger sister rolled her eyes, but made her way back down the hall to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Returning to the kitchen a moment later, she pulled carrots, cucumbers, radishes, and cherry tomatoes from the crisper, and, armed with a cutting board and sharp knife, set herself to chopping. "Phones back up, now?" she asked.

"As of ten, this morning," Callie confirmed. "Took them long enough."

"Well, with the rioting going on the first couple of nights, I guess they had a backlog or something," Maybelle suggested, swiping a handful of cherry tomatoes.

"I'd best be going," Alison said. "Daniel and I haven't seen much of each other all week."

And Alison's husband was more than patient, considering that he, unlike Sophia's husband, had no idea about Psion Force's activities. "Go on, then," Callie nodded. "_Shabbat Shalom_. Oh, and Ali? Thanks."

Alison grabbed her purse. "For what?"

Callie smiled faintly. How many times had they had this exchange over the years? She waved her colleague on.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

**(Tabitha)**

It took a while, but meditation finally beat the headache. Now I can think.

Bran hasn't said two words to me since I got back. It's not like he's being obvious about avoiding me, it's more like wherever I am, he isn't. And this is a pretty big house. Heck, it's a pretty big wing. It makes it relatively easy to evade someone without going out of your way to do so. Makes me wonder about whether this is why Bruce lives here, instead of in some penthouse in the heart of downtown.

If I keep wandering off on these tangents, I'm going to have to seriously think about changing my codename to Rambling Rosie. No, on second thought, I'd better leave it. They'd probably mix me up with Roxy Rocket. Bottom line: I've never been a big-picture person. I tend to pick one little detail, and I do mean little, and dwell on that one. You know, like for instance, let's just suppose that some refugee from the WWE beats the tar out of the main protector of the city. Do I start thinking: "gee, the criminals are going to come out of the woodwork and start going crazy, now?" Or when my brother goes and actually explicitly states same, do I pay attention? Do I think that maybe the kids at the youth centre I run in one of the worst parts of town could be in trouble, and that they have a right to depend on me? Does it occur to me that perhaps the news reporter messed up and some local wacko was feeling depressed, decided to take a nose dive, and thought dressing up in a Hallowe'een costume would make some kind of statement? Or do I instead think, "someone's got to notify next of kin, this second, and it had better be me?"

Now that I reflect back, this isn't the first time I've pulled this sort of stunt. Oh, sure, it's my first major no-holds-barred muck-up... for a while, anyway... but, actually, doesn't it all go back to the early days when Callie tried to leave me home safe, and I grabbed Jill's oversized sweatshirt, tied one of Bronwen's long scarves around the waist, and drew a mask over my eyes with Maybelle's Covergirl My Papaya lipstick? Then, I threw another scarf over my head, and used one of Natalie's stretchy hair-bands to hold it there, kufiyah-style. I must have looked like a pint-sized masked extra from _Lawrence of Arabia_.

On the whole, it wasn't that bad an effect. I only made two major mistakes, that night. Firstly, that sweatshirt I borrowed wasn't Jill's—it was one of Alison's. That Jill had taken. Without asking. And, secondly, when I caught up with the rest of the team and helped them take care of the disturbance—turf war actually—at a paintball arena out in suburbia, and some punk got lucky and spattered said sweatshirt, well, actually about eighty-five per cent of my surface area, but most significantly—said formerly cream-colored Ralph Lauren sweatshirt—with a violent mixture of orange, green, and eggplant-purple, I hadn't yet mastered the art of trying to steer the combat away from the video feeds. Sooo... Want to guess who made the eleven o'clock news, that night? Want to guess who _watched_ the eleven o'clock news, that night? Want to guess who ran tearing into her bedroom to ransack her clothes bureau, that night, hoping frantically that her favorite sweatshirt was neatly folded in the drawer where it was supposed to be after she saw that particular melee? Want to guess how Ali got involved with us in the first place?

That worked out for the best, too, I suppose. Eventually. Despite me endangering my life, blowing Callie's best-laid plans out of the water, _and_ endangering _Jill's_ life twice in a twenty-four hour period. The first time was in the heat of the battle. As for the second time... well, when the team got back to the apartment around a quarter to one in the a.m., (I phased through the roof into the bedroom and pulled up the covers, pretended to be asleep, and hoped nobody would notice that the paint and lipstick mask weren't wiping off...) want to guess who was sharing the sofa with Kay Berger? You know, the same Kay Berger, who was _supposed _to be babysitting me, and nearly had a conniption when Ali called her and told her to check if I was in bed? Oh, good. You guessed. I was afraid I might not have been obvious enough.

After Alison calmed down, and Jill promised to handle the sweatshirt restoration process—at least it was washable paint—she and Kay handed Callie an ultimatum. They both wanted in—or Jill's parents would hear about what we were up to.

So, in the long run, we got ourselves the beginnings of a strong support network. (Ali's now a doctor and Kay's planning to specialize in whatever section of the law deals with vigilante crime-fighters, in case one of us is ever taken into custody. If that area falls under 'criminal law', I think I'm insulted...) Short-term I single-handedly compromised our identities, blew Callie's strategy away to heck and gone, nearly got Phasma hurt protecting me, and ruined a designer sweatshirt. And between now and then, there've been a few more times I've pulled junk like that. The fact that things generally work out in the long run doesn't excuse my messing up in the short.

Bottom line, I used to be a cute, precocious kid. Bottom line, that shtick has outlived its usefulness. What we do, some nights, it's fun. Some nights, it's exhilarating. Some nights, it's even depressing and painful. But it's not a game. And I'm not a kid anymore. I've never been a big-picture person. Hey. Four years ago, I'd never studied Kung Fu. And when a certain expert fighter got wind of that, he had only one word for me: learn. And I did. I'm scarcely a master at it, but I have a few solid moves by now. Quite a few.

It's up to me, isn't it? I can take the path of least resistance, like I've done all along, keep my gut instinct in the drivers seat, and strap foresight, planning, and logic on the luggage rack for the ride, or I can invite at least one of those three to sit up front, maybe even take the wheel now and again. If not... If not, then it's time to admit that Bran's right and I _don't_ belong out there with the rest of the gang. Callie's only half-joking when she says that the reason she let me onto the team when I was five was because she was getting sick of coming up with contingency plans based on when she was anticipating I'd wade into the fray. Now, if she starts thinking that she needs to come up with backup plans for every outing based solely on the anticipation that I might _not _go wading into the fray... Yeah. I can see her point.

I get up from the bed. Time to take my lumps.

In the kitchen, Callie's mincing vegetables. She used to do that a lot when we were kids and she was angry. If she was stressed and felt like she was going to cry, it was onions. She thought that that way, we'd be fooled into thinking that her tears were a normal chemical reaction. Of course, there's only so many times you can have onion soup, confetti vegetable salad, and pasta with caramelized onion sauce in a row before you figure out something's up. And if you're really slow on the uptake, maybe the onion brown-sugar cake and the apple-onion flan can be your wake-up calls. Cal doesn't glance up from the poor celery stalk now bearing the brunt of her emotional state. It's a good thing Poison Ivy was recaptured last week, or I think my sister would be having the fight of her life, right about now. The counter is kind of like an ironing board with a solid base: jutting out from one wall. I've heard of 'island counters'. Would that make this one a 'peninsula'? Whatever it is, I stand in front of it, facing her while she thwacks the knife down on the helpless vegetable.

She points to a pile of cucumbers, cutting board, peeler and knife. Rule number one: when Callie's in the middle of preparing food, and you want to talk to her, you have to help. I peel a cucumber deftly, lay it down on the board and start slicing. "Thinner," she warns me, before she adds in a different tone: "I'm listening."

She always says that. Usually she's already drawn her conclusions, but she's ready to hear your side anyhow. In this case, unfortunately, I don't have a real 'side'. I take a deep breath.

"I messed up. Royally. It won't happen again." Here's the problem. I'm trying to apologize like a mature adult. Somehow or other, though, it comes out a little too nonchalant. Just a little too pat—like it's a speech I memorized. Or like a broken record.

She looks up at me. "You didn't check in for almost five days."

"I know."

"We needed you."

"I know."

She puts down the knife. "You know, you know. What's it going to be next time, Tabitha?"

What am I supposed to say to that one? How can I promise never to do it again? Something unexpected always comes up. How the heck am I supposed to give a blanket assurance? "Next time," I say slowly, "I'll tell someone what I'm planning instead of sneaking off." Why do I suddenly think that all of the flexibility I've gained turning capoeira cartwheels (technically, they're called '_au_s'. Off-topic, that's the same sound the average mook utters when he blunders into the way of one), has only made it easier for me to jam my foot into my mouth?

Callie lays the knife down next to the mutilated salad component and gives me a hard stare. "We'll discuss this after _Shabbos_," she says, finally. "I'll need to think."

What she means is that she's not going to let Gotham suffer because she has to teach me a lesson, if she thinks I've already learned it. But there _are_ going to be repercussions. I remember something.

"Um... about supper," I start to say.

She looks up at me. "Burgundy bean stew, and there's ginger basmati as a side." She picks up the knife again. Whoa. She still made me a vegetarian entrée. I don't know if she was trying to be a good mother or trying to make me feel guilty, but she's accomplished both. They're not necessarily mutually exclusive, now I think about it.

"How's Bruce?"

She puts down the knife, and looks at me. "You were planning on going in to find out, regardless, weren't you?"

Yeah, but "I'm just trying to do my reconnaissance, first."

Ok. Now, I know she's not reading my mind. One thing she's made sure of is that we all know how to block her out. Or as she puts it, if she wouldn't want someone poking around in _her_ head, she sure as heck doesn't want us to think she's poking around in one of _ours_. All the same, when she leans over the counter and stares me in the eyes, it sure _feels_ like she's looking around in there. After a minute, she seems to relax, just a little. She looks down at the chopping board, pushes away the minced celery and reaches for another stalk. She nods to herself and starts chopping the fresh piece. Not attacking, mind you, just chopping. "You'll have to ask him," she says.

Back when I said I'd rather face Bruce than Callie? Clearly, that wasn't an either-or proposition. She's right, though. I do need to talk to him. Right after I finish these cukes.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

**(Bruce)**

There was no precise moment when things began to go... downhill. I have been injured before, stymied before. I haven't always managed to put every street punk I've come across out of commission in a single night. But, even before Bane, I was slipping. I knew it. And, instead of examining the issue, I suppressed it... boxed it off... decided that I would deal with it later, when there was time. And suddenly... there wasn't. Arkham's inmates were on the streets of Gotham and I had to hunt them down. Myself. Robin warned me. _Alfred_ warned me. Even _**Bane**_ warned me at our first meeting. I took none of them seriously.

I should have called Dick myself. As soon as Azrael proved to be less than a match for Killer Croc. _No outside interference. My city. My rules._ But Dick is scarcely an outsider. And he knows my rules better than any other. I taught them to him. _He's spent the last three years proving that he's his own man. I had no right to bring him back into this._ Funny how easy it was to concern myself with his rights, when the reality was more that I was... uncomfortable... admitting that I needed help.

By the time I realized my error, I was already over my head. Now, I can acknowledge this fact. Recent events are largely due to my efforts to spare myself a few barbed rejoinders. (_You're saying you need help, Bruce? Sure! Hang on, let me just turn this report down—apparently Satan's blocked off by snowdrifts and the imps are taking ice-skating lessons! _) Those rejoinders may have been the only consequence I _did_ manage to evade. As Callie so eloquently stated under different circumstances, 'some victory. Yay, me.'

Callie. She understands without needing me to explain. "_If I was in your place I'd be terrified right now; that doesn't mean you have to be..._" I don't recall much after coming back upstairs from the cave and finding Alfred injured on the floor of the den and Bane, standing in the shadows, waiting for me. We exchanged words. I had enough time to replace the cowl and shrug the robe off of my costume. I believe, that I must have landed a few blows, although I cannot confirm having done so. I can, however, remember _landing_...

...Landing headfirst against the grandfather clock. Landing at the foot of the steps leading down to the cave, after Bane half-pushed, half-threw me down them. Landing against consoles and monitors, too spent to dodge his blows. Landing on floor, pinned under the giant penny, then dragged out from beneath it, and thrown against the trunk of the Batmobile, too dazed initially to roll out of the way when Bane bore down on me using a stalagmite as a makeshift club. So many blows overlapping, blending with those I sustained in earlier fights. New injuries inflicted on top of those barely healed, opening older wounds. I remember...

"_Beg for mercy! Scream my name!"_

I meant to hurl defiance in his face. But instead, I heard a voice I barely recognized struggle to whimper, "Go back to Hell." There was no defiance in that voice. That was not a voice to strike terror into the hearts of criminals. That... that was the voice of a proud stubborn fool who had nothing left in him _but_ his refusal, and a certainty that no matter what he did or didn't do, said or didn't say next, he was a dead man.

That was one more miscalculation, in an increasingly long line of lost steps and oversights. The last thing I remember was Bane lifting me in both arms... almost gently... almost tenderly... and then... nothing.

Nothing, until I felt the breeze on my face, blowing under the cowl, through my shredded costume. Nothing, until I found myself falling, hearing the wind whipping the shreds of my cape upward around me. _Nothing. Before... he told me I was nothing. And that time, I believed him. _And then, I was lying on the pavement...

_-"We have EMT units on the way. Can you hear me?"_

_-Woman's voice. Young. Familiar. Answer her. **Answer** her. No ambulance. Hurts. Hurts so bad I want to die. No ambulance. Mask has to stay on. Answer her. Tell her send Leslie. **Leslie**. "Uhhh..." _

_-"Hang on. They're on their way._

_Hand on my chest. Warm. What is she... checking my pulse. Smart. Smarts. Hurtshurtshurtshurts. Hurts everywhere. Everywhere? No. Something's wrong...Just want to sleep. NO! Don't sleep. Don't go into shock. You sleep you don't wake up. Sounds... like a pla—_

_-"Master Bruce, we'll be moving you in a moment. Do hold on."_

_Alfred? How? How doesn't matter. He's here. Relax. Wait! No hospital. No hospital. Have to tell him no hospital. "Unnhh..."_

_-"Don't try to talk, Sir."_

_Firm mattress. Good. Motor starts. Smells like antiseptic... something else... bread? How? Bakery? Unnhh! Ribs feel every movement. Hurts to breathe. Legs... don't hurt. Good. Good? No... they **should** hurt. Something is... very... wrong... Can't think. Just want to sleep. No hospital, Alfred..._

_-"I..."_

_What? Who? Bread smell again. That's all wrong. Good smell but wrong._

_-"I don't know if you can hear me, or if you know what's going on, but just in case you can hear, I want you to know that you're among friends. Alfred and Tim are back here with me, and Jean-Paul is driving the ambulance. And, I don't know if you remember me but I'm Callie. Or Silver Dragon."_

_Can't think. Hurts too bad. Alfred... here? Good. No hospital. Should sleep but... have to know what he did to me. Him. Bane. How bad am I hurt? How bad did he beat me?_

"_I can't pretend to know what you're feeling right now, but if I were in your place, I know I'd be terrified..."_

_She's right, too. I am..._

"Mr. Wayne?" The voice startles me back to wakefulness. I suppose it is not unsurprising that my body, so long denied its need for sleep, is seizing every opportunity to acquire it now. I open my eyes. I still smell the bread, over and above other aromas. And while I don't doubt Alfred is _capable_ of baking bread, it's not something I can recall him doing before. I pull my thoughts to the individual poised in the doorway.

"Tabitha, isn't it?"

The girl, a young woman now, technically, nods nervously. Interesting. Both at our first, and at subsequent meetings, she's been more self-possessed. "How... how are you? I mean..." She stops. A hand flies to her cheek. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," I tell her. "I was thinking." I pause. "Was there something you wanted?"

She nods again. "I just wanted to... I didn't... I mean," she looks away scowling. Then she looks back. "If you're mad because I went to get Dick, fine, but don't blame Callie. She had nothing to do with it."

"I know."

"You do." She phrases it as a statement.

"You timed your departure well."

She blinks, then nods. "It was a small window of opportunity." She looks down. "I spend a lot of time trying to put myself in someone else's shoes," she says quietly. "If it'd been me, _chas veshalom, _I would have wanted my family around me. I jumped to conclusions. I just came by to apologize."

I shake my head, slowly. "Not necessary." I wait for her to meet my eyes. "Pull something like this again at your peril. But this time, you were right."

She smiles, but confusion is still apparent in her eyes. "But, I thought... I mean I overheard when I came upstairs... Bran and Callie were talking..."

Oh. So _that's_ what Callie was planning. She should have told me. "My initial reaction was less favorable," I tell her bluntly. "She bore the brunt of it."

Tabitha nods understanding. "I should've known," she mutters. "She _always_ does this."

"This."

"Comes down on herself harder than anyone else—you included, no offense—ever could. I'm sorry I bothered you, Mr. Wayne."

"It's no bother." My stomach growls. She pretends to ignore it. I frown. "I assume that the cooking smells are coming from the north wing?"

She nods.

"The door leading into that wing is open, at the moment."

She nods again, smiling faintly.

"Will you close it when you head back?"

She looks away. "Callie asked me not to. She said the air isn't circulating so well for some reason, and that if you have an issue with it, you should talk to her."

Granted, I don't know Callie that well, but from what I have witnessed during the past week, that phrasing seems a bit uncharacteristic. As do her actions. Up to this point, without being obvious about it, Callie has gone out of her way to avoid antagonizing me, even to the point of being prepared to leave without argument or excuse when so ordered. She has managed to keep her temper when she would have had every justification to lose it. So, for her to suddenly display such an evident _lack_ of sensitivity on her part... It takes me a moment to recognize what she has planned.

"Tabitha, will you advise your sister that if she wants me to join you for dinner, next time she could simply ask me?"

She grins. "She thought you might prefer to nobly suffer alone and in silence," she says, affecting a melodramatic pose. "But if you somehow found a pretext to head down our way, and found a place already set for you at the table, she figured you might... um..."

"Think it churlish to refuse?" I feel a smile beginning to form. If anything, hers gets wider.

"You know, I think Dick may have been right about why you chose to become a detective."


	14. Chapter 13: Discomfort Zones

Disclaimer: See previous chapters. Some dialogue written by Chuck Dixon, and owned by either Dixon or DC. References to Batman: Azrael. Credit Undead Spawn on the DC message boards for one line I've put into Azrael's head.

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later.

A/N: Sorry for the delay. Writer's block. Other ideas intervening. Excuses, excuses. I'll try to post the next chapter faster.

**Chapter 13**

**Discomfort Zones**

"But I want to go-oh, too-oo!" Jaime wailed as Bruce wheeled himself into the hallway of the north wing. The boy was standing in the middle of the hallway, small fists clenched at his side as his uncle looked down at him.

Ignoring the impending tantrum, Callie smiled a welcome in Bruce's direction. "Any further improvement?"

"Not… yet." He looked inquiringly at the red-faced six-year-old blocking the path of the chair.

Callie sighed. "Bran's leaving for _shul_… um… synagogue to you. Jaime wants to tag along, but it's too long a walk."

Bruce considered. "If you need to borrow a car—"

Brandon shook his head. "Once the Sabbath starts, we don't drive. If he can't walk it, we've got problems."

"I can _too_ walk that far!"

"How about _twice_ that far?" Sophie strode down the hallway from the direction of the bedrooms. "It's not just there, it's _back_," she pointed out. She tousled her son's hair. "Sorry, honey. If you _do_ get tired, there's no _eruv_ in Bristol. You know what that means?"

"What?"

Bruce wanted to know, too.

Sophie grinned. "It means," she said hoisting Jaime into her arms, "that if you got too tired, your uncle Bran would only be able to carry you four _amos_," she walked forward approximately eight feet, "before he'd have to put you down!" She lowered him quickly, holding him dangling a few inches above the ground, until he kicked, giggling. She set him gently down. "Then… he'd have to pick you up again!" She swooped down and seized him. Over his laughter, she continued "and he'd have to carry you _another_ four _amos!_ And then he'd have to put you down, _again_! And you know what he'd do next?"

Jaime doubled over. "Pick me up again!"

"Right!" Sophie complied. "And by the time you two got back, it would be about two o'clock in the morning, and we'll all be _starving_. And that would make us…"

"Cranky!" Jaime shouted gleefully.

"Right! Now, do you want to see all of us cranky? Do you want to see your _Aunt Callie_ cranky?"

Jaime shook his head, still giggling.

"So you'll stay put?"

He nodded, giggles subsiding as he twisted round to throw his arms around his mother's neck.

Sophie set him gently on the ground. "Then go wash your face, and meet me in your room. We still need to work on your exercises. Okay?"

"'Kay," he ducked his head, and sprinted for the washroom.

Sophie smiled apologetically. "He's a terrific kid, but sometimes, it's the 'kid' part that gets emphasized."

Bruce shook his head, dismissively. "I don't mind. You mentioned an… _eruv_?"

Alfred cleared his throat. "On their Sabbath, they are not permitted to carry objects outside of an enclosed space for a distance of greater than four cubits. An _eruv_ is a barrier of sorts that encloses a larger area. I believe that the one in Gotham city encompasses some twenty square miles."

Sophie looked meaningfully down the hallway. Callie nodded and waved her on. As her older sister left, Callie's eyes narrowed. "Spill," she ordered.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Alfred," Callie replied, "when Tabitha came here that first time, you brought her a fruit bowl. Not a fruit _salad_, mind you, a fruit bowl. The implication being that you're more familiar with the Jewish dietary laws than a lot of the people who _should_ know. You haven't batted an eye at the disposable crockery," she gestured vaguely toward the dining room, "and Natalie told me that you asked her whether the hot-water urn needed filling, and whether the fridge light should be unscrewed. Things like that, I could chalk up to anticipating the needs of a guest. But you know about an _eruv_. And that doesn't dovetail. So, spill."

Alfred glanced about him. He noticed with some satisfaction that Bruce appeared as curious as the Aaronson clan. It had been a long time since he had last seen that expression on his master's face. "In my youth," he said, "I spent a good part of my summer holidays visiting one of my aunts. During the War, she resided in Shefford."

Callie absorbed that. Then, she nodded. "Mystery solved."

Bruce blinked. "Is it?"

"Well, for me, anyway." She glanced at Alfred, "if I may?" At Alfred's nod, she continued. "This is probably nothing new for you, but when British school children were evacuated from major urban centres, during the blitz, those who weren't sent abroad were billeted with families living in the countryside." She waited for Bruce's impatient acknowledgement, before continuing. "An entire Jewish day school was sent to Shefford and other villages nearby. It proved an enlightening experience for all involved."

"I can just imagine," Jill emerged from one of the bedrooms. "I've just tested the setup and it's solid," she announced. "Any reports of an Arkham escapee sighting or level five CIP, and it'll pick it up. Three keywords in five minutes and a tone will sound." She raised an eyebrow. "I'd like to meet the brain who designed that monitor. Any clue where Umbra finds these people?"

Callie shook her head. "If you ask her, she'll probably tell you. You know that, right?"

Jill nodded, grimacing. "This is me rushing to pick her brain," she deadpanned, standing stock-still.

Callie turned back to Bruce. "As you've probably gathered, we generally don't go Out on Friday nights. However, if it's a life-threatening situation, it's not only permissible for us to get involved, it's obligatory. So, with that in mind, we're monitoring police band for…" she shook her head with a wry smile. "These nights, I don't know if we can actually call it 'unusual activity.' If your people seem spread a bit too thin tonight, we'll be out there."

"On foot," Bruce stated flatly.

Callie blinked. "No, once lives are at stake, one is obligated to do everything necessary to preserve them. If we need to be out there, we'll use the fastest means available."

Bruce absorbed that. Brandon looked at his watch and yelped. "I didn't realize how late it was getting!" He dashed into his bedroom and emerge a moment later jamming a black fedora onto his head. "Good Shabbos, Jill! Gentlemen!" He grinned suddenly at Callie. "Later, Blister!" Then he was gone.

Bruce glanced at Callie. "Blister?"

Callie looked away. "Big Little Sister. He gambled I'd let him get away with saying it in front of you." She sighed. "And he was right."

A laugh from the doorway drew their attention. Dick stood there, flanked by Tim and Jean-Paul. "We were just heading down to the cave." He inhaled theatrically. "Alfred, m'man, you've got competition." He glanced at Callie. "You wouldn't be giving out samples?" he asked hopefully.

"Come back in one piece, and you can have a plateful," Callie countered without an instant's hesitation. "Joker's still out there. So's Scarecrow," she continued seriously. "And Bane."

"Yes, mother," Dick replied, rolling his eyes. Catching a frown from Bruce he sobered. "We'll be careful."

Callie nodded. "I didn't mean to imply otherwise. But all the same, consider the cookies an incentive." She looked up, a glint of humor in her eyes. "Or, consider them a bribe. Or whatever it takes for you lot to get yourselves in before sunrise." The look she turned on the three was milder than Bruce's but no less compelling for that.

As the three turned to leave, Tabitha rushed past. "Hi, Mr. Wayne," she called, without breaking her stride. "Dick, can I talk to you a sec?"

Dick gestured to the other two to go ahead of him. "What's up?" he asked, as he shut the door behind them.

Tabitha motioned him a bit further down the hallway, away from the door. "Those things my kids made. Has Bruce seen 'em yet?"

Dick shook his head. "So much has been happening, today… every time I've thought about it, the timing's been off. Did you want to take them back?"

"No," Tabitha said. "At least not right away. I was thinking, if things don't get too crazy out there tonight…" she broke off, seemingly flustered. "I thought… well…" she twisted her fingers together. "Don't go suggesting I try Arkham's outpatient clinic for dreaming this up, but," she drew a deep breath, and spouted a surprisingly credible imitation of a young Wally West at his most excitable: "doyouthinksomeoftheGCPDwouldwanttosendsomecardsandletterstoo?"

Fortunately, Dick Grayson had spent a good portion of his teen years translating Wally West at his most excitable. "I—don't know."

"Could you ask them?" Tabitha said. "It just got me thinking… a bunch of letters from a gang of kids he doesn't know might be…"

"Cute?" Dick smiled. "Sweet?"

Tabitha nodded. "Exactly. _I'd_ be touched. _He_, on the other hand, probably wouldn't know how to handle it. But the getting the same things from people he _does_ know… look, do I really have to say a lot of his recovery is going to depend on his attitude? I'm no doctor, but even _I_ can figure that much out. Maybe some stuff like that would help." She exhaled noisily. At Dick's silence, she shook her head. "Or maybe I watched too many Care Bears episodes back when I was a kid, I…" she shook her head. "Forget it. It was a stupid idea. Forget I said anything." She ducked back toward the north wing door, face burning. _Of all the stupid, saccharine, sentimental claptrap…_ she thought furiously. _No wonder Callie tossed the television!_

Nightwing stared after her, a faintly bemused expression on his face. Then he squared his shoulders and headed down to join Tim and Jean-Paul in the cave.

* * *

_Two hours later_

It was a good thing that at least one of the Batmobiles was a four-seater, Nightwing thought to himself. He was driving, Azrael seated beside him in the front, and Robin in the back, while police band provided background noise. As they passed over the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge, and the police dispatcher started crackling with reports of a shooting at Gotham U, a harsh yellow spotlight with a black bat silhouette clicked on above them in the night sky.

"GCPD's on the way," Nightwing said tersely. "I'll get out there, then you two head over to the university. I'll catch up."

"Check." Azrael, nodded, a barely controlled gleam in his eye. Dick frowned. _It's not that he's intense, I've dealt with 'intense' for years_, he thought. _This is bordering on fanatical._ He glanced quickly at the Tim via the rearview mirror and saw his own reservations mirrored in the boy's expression. Robin and Azrael had been out together before, Nightwing noted. He'd have to remember to ask Tim about it, later.

He stopped the Batmobile three blocks away from GCPD headquarters and got out.

"I'm taking the front," Robin said, opening the rear door as Azrael shifted to the driver's seat. As Robin exited, both passenger doors suddenly slammed shut, and the Batmobile screeched away, a plume of exhaust rising behind. "Hey!" both young men exclaimed, watching the car disappear around a corner several blocks away.

Robin shook his head, incredulous. "I can_not _believe he just did that."

Neither could Nightwing. "Looks like you're coming with me, for now," he said lightly, not about to let the boy see how disturbed he was by Azrael's action. _And Bruce and I will be discussing this later.

* * *

_

_Scum. Five of them. Young. Not one was more than twenty-five, but strong, mean, tough. A good warm-up._ Azrael was glad that he had left Robin behind. He needed all his concentration, for this. The boy would only get in the way. _And if the 'system' takes over, will I even be able to protect him? Nomoz told me that Azrael doesn't save, he avenges. I overrode the programming once, weeks ago, to save Batman. Would I be able to do that again? I wonder…_

He checked himself. He couldn't afford the luxury of introspection when one of the punks, a boy only a few years older than Robin, was bearing down on him with a brick affixed to a stout piece of kindling to make a crude hammer. Crude, but it would be effective enough were it to connect. _So, I'll just have to make certain that it does not._ He slammed his fist heavily into the face of another young thug, breaking the man's nose in the process, then dodged the hammer blow. The momentum of the thrust carried the hammer's swing forward, to connect with another attacker. The hapless gang-member went down with a grunt. Azrael stepped over him contemptuously, and dusted off the hammer-wielder with an uppercut to the jaw and a kick to the solar plexus. He looked around. Four punks lay incapacitated on the pavement in various states of consciousness. Where was the fifth?

"Stay back, Man! I'll _hurt_ you, Man!"

_Right behind me with an axe. Perfect._ He allowed himself a thin smile, unseen by the mook behind him. Then, he turned slowly to face the lone remaining assailant. "Hurt me?" He asked, a hint of mockery in his tone. "_You_ could never hurt _me_." He leveled his gaze at the young punk, feeling a brief satisfaction as a look of terror flitted across the youth's face and he retreated a step raising the axe defensively. _Not an axe, actually,_ he noted, detached. _Just another hammer. _Pressing his advantage, Azrael advanced on him, continuing. "You hand over that hammer and you hand it over _now_. Unless you want to spend the rest of your life on a respirator."

His would-be attacker gulped. He wavered a moment. In that fleeting moment, Azrael wondered whether the thug was going to try to swing the weapon out of desperation. Part of him hoped so. But the moment passed, and the thug held the handle out slowly. "Okay, Man. You got it, Okay?" He gulped. "I'll go easy."

Easy? Yes, actually it was easy. With the system, with the added instruction that Robin had provided, it was almost embarrassingly so. He was a natural. His hand shot forward to seize the haft of the hammer. "You're all cowards," he said softly, almost gently. Then he snarled. "Every. Last. _One_. Of. You!"

The mook trembled. "What d'ya want, Man?" he stammered.

There was a rushing in his ears, a resonance within him telling him that he was at one with the system, and the system was good. It had kept him whole. It had kept him alive. It had made him victorious. Barely aware of what he was doing, Azrael raised the hammer and swung it behind him, preparing bring it forward again and down. "I'll _show_ you what I want!"

The punk squeaked, tried to run, but stumbled backwards and fell heavily to the ground. He raised his hands hopelessly, instinctively to block the impending blow. "No, man," he whimpered. "Please, no…"

And within the harmony of purpose between mind and body, as he raised the weapon over his head, a faint… dissonance became apparent. What was he? He was about to kill? …That wasn't, couldn't be him. _Azrael, the avenging angel, kills when necessary. I am Azrael. But I am **not **a killer. Not me. Not yet… _"Get. Out. Of. Here." He forced the words out from between clenched teeth.

The mook didn't wait to be told twice. Finding his feet, he turned tail and dashed out of the alley as if Azrael might reassess his sudden magnanimity.

Azrael lowered the hammer shakily. If the youth had stayed any longer, he _might_ have reconsidered. What, he wondered again, had the order of Saint Dumas _done _to him? He looked at the four bloodied but breathing thugs still lying in the dust at his feet, then turned to the wall and was quietly sick.

* * *

Concealed by the shadows, Robin watched Nightwing descend to the rooftop of the GCPD. 

"You can turn it off, now, Commissioner," Nightwing said, indicating the signal.

"You," Gordon said trying to stifle his disappointment.

"Afraid so, Commissioner," Nightwing returned. _You think **you'd** rather it was Batman responding? __Believe me, so would I. But, since he can't, it looks like you're stuck with me._ "This is to do with the incident at the university?"

Gordon nodded tersely. "Bullock says it was Scarecrow. We're trying to keep that quiet for now." He shifted the signal-switch to the 'off' position and watched the spotlight fade from the sky.

"Bullock," Nightwing repeated, dubiously.

"Yes, Bullock," Gordon snapped back. "He happens to be a damned fine cop."

_As long as someone's holding up a Krispy Kremes outlet._ He bit back the retort. That particular quip would have been uncalled for back when he wore the red-green-and-yellow, forget now.

"Details?" He asked tersely to cover his embarrassment.

Gordon sighed. "He rented one of the lecture halls using a false name, posted flyers advertising for test subjects.

Nightwing digested that. Scarecrow wasn't one for hostages. Either the eight missing were somehow connected to something in his past, or they were integral to whatever he had planned. _Better figure it out fast. As fast as Bruce would if he were out there._

"How is he?" Gordon asked.

_Just fine, thanks. That's why I'm standing here realizing that I should have pulled a disappearing act by now so I wouldn't be stuck here trying to come up with an answer to that question that isn't going to sound like a lie._

"Nightwing?" Gordon asked, softly, "Is he—"?

Nightwing flinched as he understood what Gordon couldn't bring himself to ask. "No!" he said quickly. "No, no, nothing like that—he's still here!" He caught himself. "I mean, not _here_—here… on the roof with us, but he's not …gone…"

Gordon exhaled. "That's something, anyway." He hesitated. "You know that two of my people were on the scene."

He hadn't, but nodded anyway.

Gordon continued. "They said he was hurt pretty bad. Like they weren't expecting him to be back." He kept his voice flat, even. It was the tone he used when he was filling Batman in on the details of a particularly nasty crime, and didn't want to let his emotions spill over into the details.

_This has to be worse for him_, Nightwing realized. _He knows I can't tell him anything, even if I want to, and I'm the only person he can ask. And he doesn't want to push it but—" _

"Nightwing?" Gordon repeated.

_Daydream in _day_light, Grayson!_ He met Gordon's eyes again. "Sorry, Commissioner, what was that?"

Gordon sighed. "Your mentor and I generally don't pry into each other's personal lives. It makes things easier all around. But, those officers who witnessed it—they generally don't exaggerate. If his injuries were as bad as they made out… are the medical expenses a problem? Because, maybe we could discreetly—"

Nightwing smiled in relief. At least here, he was on solid ground. "Thanks for the offer, Commissioner. That's already being handled."

Gordon didn't seem surprised. "Of course. It would be." He shook his head ruefully. "Forget I said anything." He couldn't see Nightwing's eyes widen slightly behind the mask. "I appreciate yourtelling me what you could. Anyway. You'd better go after Scarecrow, now. If there's anything else we can do…"

Nightwing mulled it over for a few seconds. "Actually, Sir," he said, "there might be."


	15. Chapter 14: The Opposite of Ego

Disclaimer: See previous chapters. Some dialogue written by Chuck Dixon, and owned by either Dixon or DC. References to Batman: Azrael.

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later.

* * *

**Chapter 14**

**The Opposite of Ego**

"_Anxiety is sort of the opposite of ego. You're so sure you'll do everything wrong you're afraid you'll do anything at all. It results from over motivation--leading to errors that lead to an underestimation of one's self."_

Robert M. Pirsig, _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

* * *

_

_He fights like a machine—disarming them, taking no chances, reveling in his unique blend of athletic skill and brutal physical power. He's new to this city—and yet there is something about him that was here long before there were streets and buildings and… and criminals._

Atop a fifth-floor fire escape, Lonnie Machin—Anarky—watched intently as a six-foot-two-inch tall figure in a black ninja-esque costume plowed through a crowd of armed street punks. A kick to the shoulder sent one flying. A second kick knocked the gun from another's hand and continued on, connecting with the man's jaw. The man crumpled spitting blood and teeth onto the asphalt. Without pausing a beat, the man in black crouched low and shot his fist heavily into a third assailant's abdomen. A rear kick incapacitated another gunman. Swiftly, the masked figure seized the man by his shirtfront, hoisted him over his head, and slammed him into another attacker—this one sporting a red balaclava.

Understanding dawned on the teen watching above. _The evil of Gotham City is all the fault of people like this! They set themselves up as vigilante elite—costumed heroes who issue their challenges to all: Gotham belongs to us—take it if you can! _

…_And the maniacs have accepted. The Joker—the Ventriloquist and Scarface—the hoods, Zsasz, Two-Face… _All_ of them—they only exist as an answer to this challenge!_

Anarky felt as though a light had exploded within his head. _Vigilantes_—masked men like the ninja in black below were at the root of the evil in the city. However good their intentions, their guilt was unmistakable. Reflexively, he touched the gold mask that completely covered his own features.

_Quoting Einstein out of context, they say that good and evil are relative; that there are no moral absolutes. They lie. Only two laws are needed to change the entire universe: Never use initiatory force, and never cheat. The vigilantes who roam our streets constantly break both. Their very presence draws the criminals out of their hidey-holes, initiating conflict. They purport to uphold the law, and yet they violate it themselves when it suits them and they cheat the consequences. They are as evil as those they fight!_

The youth straightened his broad-brimmed red hat, watching as the man below fired a grapnel. It snagged a cornice several stories above him and he swung away, doubtless in search of others to hurt. No. He would have to fall. "And," the teen said aloud, barely above a whisper, "Anarky, the voice of the people, must bring him down!"

* * *

Bullock hated sloppiness. If he'd ever voiced that comment aloud, he knew that it would have provoked smirks and eye-rollings from anyone within earshot. At first glance, his rumpled suit, frequently coated with powdered sugar residue from the jelly donuts on which he practically subsisted, and the habitual five-o'clock shadow on his jaw line would seem to indicate self-loathing, were that indeed to be the case. But, whatever his personal appearance, when it came to police work, he displayed a thoroughness that was the admiration of many within the Department. 

Dean Kalisky, a middle-aged nervous man, whose fingers twitched anxiously, was the just the opposite. Neatly dressed, and impeccably groomed, his mahogany desk was bare of any decoration save a picture of a smiling woman in her middle forties, and a large snow globe paperweight. A clean pad of ruled paper lay beneath a Parker pen. Beyond that, the desk was bare. _If a cluttered desk means a cluttered mind_, Bullock thought, _how about an _empty _desk?_

Kalisky had seemed stunned when Bullock had asked how Crane had come unchallenged to lecture that evening. No security, no request for ID, no verification of credentials… Bullock made little effort to conceal his irritation, as he followed the dean into the classroom from which Crane had taken the students. As he examined the scene, he felt his annoyance congeal into a mixture of anger and disgust.

"…Several Scarecrow costumes—a dead kid—and seven missing students! Pardon the aspersion, Dean," he said, not sounding at all sorry, "but what kinda university you _running _here?"

The dean's fingers twisted together nervously. "It wasn't _our _fault, detective! We rented out the annex in good faith. Professor Rance—"

"_Crane_, Dean," Bullock corrected furiously. "Jonathan Crane—the _Scarecrow_!" He snorted in disbelief. "You didn't even _check_ on him!" The press was going to have a field day with this one. And, if GCPD didn't catch Scarecrow soon, Mayor Krol was going to start twisting the screws on Gordon. Which was _all_ the commish needed right now. And this idiot could have stopped the whole thing cold if he'd just made a few phone calls!

"That was Ms. Stopes', responsibility—" Kalisky said faintly, pressing a hand to his brow."

Maybe _she_ would have some answers for him. "She around?"

Kalisky coughed, miserably. "I fear _she's_ missing, too!"

_Perfect_.

"Lighten up, Bullock!" Behind him, his new partner, Renee Montoya approached waving a videocassette. "It's easy to be wise after the event. Look at this…" On the label of the tape, someone had scrawled in bold black lettering "For Batman."

Bullock frowned. "A message?" he grunted, holding out a hand for the tape.

Montoya jerked her hand back, automatically. "Not for us."

Bullock glowered. He liked Montoya. She was tough. She was smart. Unlike most of the other rookies he'd had occasion to be paired with, she hadn't instantly written him off as some loser who'd been Peter Principled into his current position. But she had displayed a distinct eagerness to let the Bat take over what should be strictly police matters. Bullock respected the Bat. To a large extent, he trusted him. And, if some lowlife injected him with enough sodium pentothal, Bullock would even admit that Gotham probably needed him. But he didn't have to like the idea that the GCPD relied on the Bat as much as it did. And if Montoya's first instinct was to turn over all evidence and let the Bat have first crack at it…

He snatched the cassette from her. "This is _evidence_--found at the scene of a _crime_. We watch!"

* * *

"…We watch!" Nightwing heard Bullock proclaim. He slipped silently through the open window. After a moment he motioned to Robin to follow. The younger crime-fighter hesitated, but managed to enter unseen by the police and Dean Kalisky. Nightwing smiled encouragement as Robin pulled his cape tightly forward, concealing his red-and-green costume beneath its inky blackness. And just why, Dick wondered, had _he_ never thought to wear a cape that was black on the outside… or long pants, for that matter? 

He shook his head and pulled his attention to the television set connected to the VCR player. The screen wavered, and then stabilized to reveal the Scarecrow staring menacingly out at them.

"Greetings, Batman!" leered the figure on the tape.

"Yo yourself, Fruitcake," Bullock snorted.

Scarecrow continued. "I've read that the present _parlous_ state of world affairs may be a direct result of Mankind's long slow drift away from religion. _I_ intend to rectify that sorry fact. Before the night is over, a _million voices_ will sing my praise--a _million knees _bend in homage--a _million screams_ beg me to release them from my awful reign of terror. Beware… for tonight the god of fear stalks Gotham City!"

"Cheez!" Bullock gaped. "Fruitcake ain't the half of it where that creep's concerned!"

_Hoo boy_, Nightwing rolled his eyes. _Did Crane and Maxie share a padded cell together, or what… hunh--_

"Tape seems to be stuck--" Montoya said.

Robin saw it in the same split-second that Nightwing did. The two lunged forward as one. Montoya found herself hurtling forward as a brightly clad teen plowed into her, carrying her clear. Nightwing tackled Bullock.

"What the heck…" Bullock gasped as the TV set exploded in flames.

"Magnesium-based booby trap," Nightwing snapped back. "Want to read some more of his mail?" Out the corner of his eye, he saw that Robin had removed his cape and was using the Nomex fabric to keep the flames at bay with one hand, while he fumbled for the chemical flame retardant canister in his utility belt with the other. He nodded approval and gestured to the other three to follow him to the exit.

"Point taken," a chastened Bullock replied. "Next time I just pass the message on!" He exhaled. "That's one we owe you." Robin joined them. "If you freaks ever need anything--"

"A list of the missing students would be good," Nightwing returned. "If forensics comes up with any leads, tell Gordon I'll be watching for the signal."

Bullock glanced up sharply. "You."

"Me." _Want to make something of it?_

He nodded. "So that's how it is, then."

Nightwing nodded, clenching his teeth, as he braced Bullock's resigned acquiescence, or more likely, his derisive snort. "That's how it is."

Bullock mulled that over for about ten seconds. "Well if that's how it is," he said finally, "Then what the hell are you doing standing here talking to me?" He bellowed. Robin jumped. Bullock ignored him. "You two freaks have a fruitcake to nab! What, you want me to turn around so you can do your Claude Raines impression? Scram!"

Nightwing's stunned expression gave way to a huge smile. Giving a mock salute, he nudged Robin. "You heard the man. Let's go."

* * *

Elsewhere in Gotham, Azrael swung from rooftop to gargoyle to flagpole. He was developing a feel for the city's moods--an awareness that had only recently begun to manifest. Some nights, there was a near-serenity to the bustle of traffic, a heady enthusiasm to the pace of the pedestrian crowds pouring out of theatres and nightclubs, something almost comforting in the warning bells of the elevated trains passing below his perch. Tonight, however, Gotham was on the brink, stress levels on overdose. Bane was responsible, Azrael knew. By rights, he should go against him. With the System guiding his moves, Azrael could take him down. He knew it. But Bruce Wayne had forbidden it. Very well. Leave Bane to Bruce. He would take the rest of this evil city! 

The sound of breaking glass caught his attention. Two youths had apparently gotten hold of a crowbar, and were using it to smash the window of a parked car below him. Azrael smiled to himself. The night. The chill. The challenge. No wonder Bruce loved this. No. No wonder _he_ loved it. He leaped from his perch, to land, crouched on the roof of the vehicle in question.

"Lost your key, Lowlife?" he asked, tensing for battle.

* * *

"Oracle." Nightwing activated his comlink. "Any signs of Scarecrow making his move, yet?" 

"Negative," she replied. "Continuing to monitor on all frequencies."

The voder was up, providing a buffer between them. Dick understood, much as he detested it. Rather than give anyone the opportunity to feel sorry for her, Babs was keeping as many defenses raised as possible. She'd rather have people ticked off at her than have them pity her, any day. Dick blinked. That sounded oddly familiar. He wondered… "You know his condition," he stated.

"Affirmative." When she spoke again, however, Nightwing was pleasantly surprise to find the voder off. "How are _you_?"

_Well, considering that the woman I was planning to marry recently left the solar system, considering that the people I think of practically as family essentially followed in my 'Dad's' footsteps and fired me, considering that said Dad almost died last week, considering that one of his protégés is acting like he's been doing undercover work at Arkham long enough to 'go native' on us…_

"Managing." A thought occurred to him. "It's been too long. Any chance of us getting together, later?"

Tim, overhearing Dick's half of the conversation, shook his head in mock disbelief. "Scarecrow's at large and you're trying to make a date?"

"The current Boy Wonder has a point, Dick. Besides, you don't think Silver Dragon'll be hurt if you don't turn up in time for those chocolate chip cookies?"

Dick's jaw dropped. _Did she have every room and rooftop in Gotham wired for audio feed?_ More to the point, did she have the _manor_ wired? "How did--"

"I'm Oracle, genius. The all-seeing, all-knowing--" her voice broke off in midsentence. "Guys," she said, patching Tim's comlink into the conversation, and turning the voder back on, "I've got eight simultaneous Scarecrow sightings within the downtown core. Feeding coordinates to your trackers, now."

Robin was already pulling the device out from his utility belt. "Got 'em."

Dick held up his own tracker. "Me too. Thanks, Oracle. Keep us posted if any intel turns up?"

A note of flippancy entered the synthetic voice transmission. "Well, I was thinking about getting my jollies watching you two fumble around, but I guess you've got a lot to keep an eye on over the next little while."

"Cute."

"How kind of you to notice, Sir--" She broke off suddenly. "Oracle out."

Dick frowned, resigned. They had been that close. They had almost slipped back into the easy banter that had once come so naturally to them. And then, she'd raised shields again.

"Eight sightings," Tim said. "Split 'em up, four apiece?"

Dick shook his head. "Too dangerous. One of those has got to be the real one. And you don't want to face him without backup."

Tim nodded, declining to mention that the night he'd earned the Robin suit, he actually _had_ faced Scarecrow without backup. It wasn't like he wanted to repeat the performance.

"So," he ventured. "You know Oracle pretty well, I take it."

Dick looked down at the slightly built youth. "You worked out who Batman and I are. Can't you just leave it at that? Or at least," he added with a grin, "leave me out of your investigations. She prefers to act as a voice behind the scenes, these days. An _anonymous _voice."

Tim nodded sheepishly. "Okay. So, which Scarecrow do we want to take first?"

Nightwing looked at the tracker grid, eyes narrowed. "You tell me."

"Hunh?"

"Take a good look at those coordinates. There's an anomaly."

Robin studied the display intently. A moment later, his perplexed expression gave way to comprehension. "Six of those Scarecrows are working solo. Two of them are together. Since that's the only team showing, one of those two is probably Crane." He glanced up to see Nightwing's smile of approval.

"Thought you'd figure it out. Let's see how fast we can make it to the Gotham Central Public Library."

* * *

Azrael had lost count of the number of punks he had encountered over the last few hours. The rush of adrenaline, coupled with a heady sense of accomplishment fueled him onward. This would be a night that Gotham remembered forever! The two thugs, their ponytails held tightly in Azrael's black-gauntleted fists, whimpered in fear and pain. "N-no more, man!" one pleaded. "I've had enough." Earlier in the evening, that might have moved him to pity. Not now. Swiftly, he knocked both heads together, noting the sound of the resulting impact with grim satisfaction. Abruptly, he released them, and they fell, groaning to the asphalt. He doubted that they would cause further trouble, this night or any other. But just in case… 

"Now, I don't care if the police get you or not," he gritted. "This is my _personal_ warning: if I see either of you on the streets after dark in the next month, you get the same again." He paused a beat, before adding, "whether you've done anything wrong or not!" He departed, leaving the two panicked men cowering behind him.

* * *

Elsewhere in the city, as the church clock in Mortimer Plaza chimed ten, at the Cameron Theater, the Hotel Paris, the Garden of Von Eeden Restaurant, and an apartment block on the corner of Sherman and Sprang, many more people were cowering. By ten-oh-five, one restaurant patron had choked another nearly to death. Witnesses later reported that the victim had offered no resistance, frozen in terror and shrieking about snakes. Although nobody else had spotted an ophidian, one woman recalled that she had seen scorpions on the victim's head. 

At roughly the same moment, another patron, shrieking that he was covered in ants, inadvertently jostled a flaming platter of Crepes Suzette, setting the waiter ablaze. The terrified man hurled himself blindly out a fifth-story window.

Spotting him, Azrael, trusting to the fireproof qualities of the costume that Robin had designed for him, caught the hapless man in midair. Although the costume _was_, in fact, impervious to the flames, the acrid smoke blurred his vision, and the heat reddened his face. The pungent odor of burning metal assailed his nostrils. Looking up, Azrael saw, to his horror, that the flames were eating away at his decel cable. Instinctively, he bore down on the fountain below, dropping altitude as quickly as he dared.

They were barely nine feet above, when the line snapped. _Take the brunt!_ He forced himself to override The System's mandate for self-preservation, hugging the burning man against his chest, as he tumbled, headfirst, to the water below. If it wasn't deep enough… if it wasn't deep enough, he'd end up in worse shape than Wayne, he thought, as they hit with a splash.

* * *

"You! Scarecrow!" Anarky leapt toward the raggedy figure, who was poised over an airshaft. A small, skull-shaped object was in the spindly man's hand. As the red-clad teenaged boy slammed into him, the device fell from his grasp and tumbled harmlessly down a sewer grating. Taken unawares, the Scarecrow fell without a cry, with Anarky on top of him. 

"Professor Jonathan Crane," the youth announce triumphantly, "if I remember the police files I hacked into, the Voice of the People says you are busted!" In a single fluid motion, he unmasked the prone figure. Behind his own mask, his eyes widened. "A kid?" He gaped, astonished.

The boy, not much older than Anarky himself was, stared back blankly, reacting not at all to the gold mask with the severe expression.

_Hypnotized_, he realized. _Well, at least I can do something about that._ Pulling a device out from his robes, Anarky passed the disk in front of his captive's eyes. "Okay--snap out of it! Now!" For a moment, something sparked in the youth's eyes, but they immediately went blank again. The conditioning was deep, indeed, he realized. To get to the bottom of it, Anarky would need to go even deeper…

Over the city skyline, the ghostly image of the Scarecrow suddenly appeared, leering down. And a raspy voice blasted forth: "PEOPLE OF GOTHAM!"

* * *

Inside the burning Garden of Von Eeden, Azrael was trying to herd the frenzied diners to safety, with scant success. Most of the patrons were paralyzed by fear, and virtually incoherent, due to Scarecrow's fear gas. The fact that the restaurant was on fire, barely registered on them. Azrael was searching for a way to break through to them when he heard the voice. _What the…_

"People of Gotham," the voice repeated, "this is the Scarecrow! Already my omnipotent power moves among you--spreading fear--Panic--DEATH _AND **DESTRUCTION!**_" The voice gained volume with each word, ending the sentence with a wheezing cackle. A moment later, it continued.

"Fall on your knees! Worship me! Pray that in my magnificent omniscience I will spare you the onslaught to come! Surrender your city to me by midnight… or face total annihilation at the hands of the new god of fear!" Maniacal laughter echoed through the night, as the words 'BY MIDNIGHT… OR YOUR CITY DIES!' appeared overhead. The words faded quickly, but the image of Scarecrow remained.

Azrael suddenly recalled something he'd caught over the radio in the Batmobile earlier… something about a truck of hologram equipment going missing. Immediately, he realized who must have found it.

Outside the window, he could see fire trucks closing in on the restaurant rapidly. "Took them long enough," Azrael muttered to himself. The professionals should be able to handle the blaze. He'd be of better use tracking down Scarecrow. If he could only figure out where to find him…

* * *

Nightwing looked up at the hazy words grimly. "Guess it's up to us to convince the Wicked Warlock of the West that we're not going to 'surrender Dorothy'." He stated. 

Robin winced. If that was supposed to be a quip, Nightwing had to be a _lot_ more nervous than he was letting on. How did he hide it so well?

They had been tracking the two blips in close proximity, when their signals had vanished into one of the areas of Gotham that boasted too much electronic interference to pick up a clear trace. They had given up, temporarily, and tracked down another one of the blips. The student it represented, one Tracy Meehan, was currently under observation at Saint Swithin's Trauma Center.

After unloading Meehan at the hospital, they had rechecked their scanners to find that one of the two missing blips had reappeared. But there was no indication, now, as to which one of the remaining dots on their screen represented Scarecrow.

"The fear of the L-rd is the beginning of wisdom!" The voice was back, projecting throughout the city.

"Man!" Robin exclaimed. "That's getting annoying."

Nightwing nodded agreement. "_Tell_ me about it." He turned on his comlink again. "Oracle. Any luck pinpointing the source of his signal?"

A moment later, the voder responded. "Depends on what you mean by luck. He has six projectors throughout the city. Hold on; better make that five. Azrael just took out one--oh!"

Nightwing started. "Ba-" _Don't call her 'Babs', you moron! Tim's right there!_ "Babe?" _Sorry, Babs, please let me explain that one before you kill me… _"Oracle?"

There was a long pause. "Dick. One of the kids Crane kidnapped. There was a firefight at Precinct 43, ten minutes ago. The kid was in a Scarecrow costume. They shot him. He's dead. Along with three officers--" The voder paused. "I'm trying to get a fix on Crane for you. Meanwhile, I've found out one more thing that could be useful. One of the kidnap victims is Philip Herold. His father was--"

"Paul Herold," Nightwing completed. "The first man Scarecrow ever killed. Hold everything! Oracle, Herold was an antiquarian. What happened to his ancient book collection?"

"Philip inherited it. It's currently located at his home… feeding the address and coordinates to you… now."

Nightwing grinned. "Thanks, Doll. I think that's just the break we needed."

Barbara's voice came on the line. "'Babe'. 'Doll'. You know, I knocked the stuffing out of my last practice dummy. You volunteering to fill in until my next mail order gets here?"

He'd been on the receiving end of those escrima sticks exactly once. Which was precisely once too many. "Very busy, no time." He countered quickly.

"Scaredy-_bat_!" The channel clicked shut.

Robin turned to him. "A lead?"

"A good one." Nightwing nodded. He quickly filled his junior partner in on the Herold situation.

* * *

Azrael shook his fist impotently at the massive Scarecrow hologram. What a mess this was. It might be Scarecrow's handiwork, but Bane had the ultimate responsibility.He wanted to go after Bane. It occurred to him that much of the violence set to befall the city, now that Bruce Wayne was incapacitated, and the Santa Priscan held sway, might be averted, were Azrael to simply… kill… the man who had broken the Batman. No. Scarecrow was still the priority. His midnight deadline was fast approaching. Azrael returned to the Batmobile to review the data. Almost as a reflex, he turned on the police band radio. For a moment, there was static. And then… 

"Base--Bullock here! I got a list of the students kidnapped by the Scarecrow. Pencil ready?"

Azrael opened the glove compartment. _It was, indeed_.

* * *

On the rooftop terrace of Philip Herold's apartment building, too ragged figures stood gazing out at the city. While one stood mutely stiff, the other was a bundle of enraged kinetic energy… 

"Stunted dwarves!" Crane ranted. "What do _they _know? Just take the paucity of words they have for states of fear--anxiety, nervousness, fright, fear itself, and terror. What kind of primeval brain would stop at that? Wait till _I'm_ in charge! We'll be precise! There'll be a thousand words for fear! One for that cold clammy feeling when alone in bed, a corpse grabs your ankle! One for that sweet eternal frisson before a major auto crash! A million words… and all based on fear!"

He turned to his companion, who stood miserably stoic, a vacant expression on his face, a lifetime's worth of anguish in his eyes. "What do you say, Phil?" He asked, mockingly.

The boy stood still.

Scarecrow knocked smartly on the youth's head. "Hello? Anybody home? What are you thinking about in there? Hate me, eh?"

Unwillingly, the syllable burst from his lips. "Yes."

Crane took no offense. "Remembering how I killed your father," he continued conversationally, "or worrying about how I'm going to kill _you_?"

He answered because he had no choice. "Both."

Scarecrow chuckled genially. "Cheer up," he said, draping an arm around the boy's stiff shoulders. "I like you. Whatever might happen tonight, I guarantee you a most _excellent_ death!"

Philip Herold, his will sapped by the same fear gas that had set his fellow students, zombie-like, to terrorize the city, stood paralyzed, unable even to cringe without Scarecrow's permission. Which, oddly enough, given his desire to be acclaimed 'god of fear', was not forthcoming.

* * *

On another rooftop, not too far away, Anarky watched them via a pair of binoculars. Scarecrow's hood mad it difficult for him to lip-read, but in fact, he didn't need to. Scarecrow was insane. By rights, Anarky should challenge him, but that would only rectify the problem in the short-term. If it was Batman, and other vigilantes like him, who had created the costumed maniacs who treated Arkham Asylum as if it was a minimum-security detention center for white-collar tax-evaders, then they were the greater threat. They attracted these maniacs to them like flies to rotten meat. But they were far from stupid… 

Anarky knew that at least one of them would deduce where Scarecrow was. And Anarky would be waiting when that one did.

* * *

At GCPD headquarters, Gordon was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. There were at least ten major fires and several minor ones blazing throughout the city. There was a mass panic at the university. The press was on line one, and Mayor Kroll's office on line three. At present, Lieutenant Kitch was on line two, telling a caller whose panicked voice was spilling out of the receiver… 

"Sorry, fire teams are all busy! You'll just have to do your best!" He banged down the receiver, wincing.

"I've seen it bad before, Sir," Kitch said, burying his head in his hands, but never anything like this. And, if Scarecrow's to be believed, there's worse to come if we don't give in! I don't mind admitting… I'm afraid this time we won't pull through."

Gordon placed a meaty hand on the lieutenant's shoulder. "That's exactly how he wants you to feel. Sure, we're in a mess right now, but we have to go on. It's our only option." The telephone rang behind him and he reached for it. "Things will work out in the end, you'll see," he said as he picked up the receiver.

"Commissioner Gord--"

The raspy voice on the other end cut him off. "Hi, Big Guy! Remember me?"

Scarecrow. "Had enough?" The voice continued. "Is the city prepared to declare me a god, yet?"

"Listen to me, you murdering maniac!" Gordon shouted

"No, Gordon," The voice turned coldly serious. "_You_ will listen to _me_. I have a tanker full of fear gas centrally positioned! Unless you officially announce my godhood, it will be detonated at midnight precisely. Time is running out, Gordon. This is your last warning."

"Scarecrow," Gordon's tone was placating, "you're being illogical." _He's being insane. Why do I find that surprising?_ "How on earth can we make you a god!"

There was a click, and the line went dead. Remembering what he had just told Kitch, Gordon slowly replaced the receiver. "It'll work out," he lied convincingly. "It's got to."

* * *

"Thanks again, Oracle," Nightwing said. They had just managed to put down the rioting students at the university. Thanks to an internet connection and access to the chemistry labs, they now had a viable antidote to the effects of Crane's latest fear gas--as approximately two hundred sleeping students would be able to attest, once they regained consciousness. "We're on it." 

They were standing above the elevated train tracks waiting for the eleven-oh-three.

"Doesn't make sense," Robin protested. The gas'll just dissipate in the atmosphere. He'd need to release it in an enclosed space."

"Here it comes," Nightwing cautioned. "Get ready."

Robin nodded, still thinking aloud. "It can't be gas. Not if he's going to use it on the entire city. He'd have to get it into every ventilation system. He hasn't got the time or the manpower--"

The train stopped. Nightwing leapt lightly from his perch, to land quietly on one of the cars. Robin followed suit. His landing was solid, but he lost his footing when the train started, and would have toppled hand Nightwing not grabbed him.

"You think it's a bluff, then, Robin?" He asked.

"Maybe. But if it isn't then… how… _could _he immobilize the city?"

"You mean apart from what's going on right now? Well, he could have some sort of setup where the gas sprays out at intervals. That way as it dissipates, more gets pumped out. It still wouldn't nail everyone--but it would be more effective than just detonating the tanker. What if..." Nightwing stood very still. "What if it's not _gas_? What if he chilled it down to a liquid state, instead?"

Robin's jaw dropped. "He's going to dump it in the reservoir!"

Nightwing nodded. "Oracle," he spoke into his comlink. "Can you get me patched through on a phone line to the commissioner's office?" He filled her in quickly. A moment later, a harried voice came on the line.

"Gordon here."

"Commissioner, this is Nightwing."

"Do you have him?"

"Not yet. Commissioner, forget what he said about the tanker. If you have any available units, get them to the reservoir. That's how he's going to release the fear toxin. We're on our way."

"Understood." Gordon spoke firmly. "What about Scarecrow?"

Nightwing's response was immediate. "If he's at the reservoir, we'll get him. If he isn't, we'll get him after we take possession of the toxin." It was the right answer, he assured himself. It had to be. Even if Bruce might have handled it differently, it was still the correct course of action.

There was a long pause on the other end.

It was the right thing to do. Wasn't it?

"I have three units in the area of the reservoir. Two of them are on their way."

Inwardly, Nightwing breathed a sigh of relief. "We should be there in about twelve minutes. Commissioner, if they get there first, tell them to keep their distance, until we're sure who--and what--we're dealing with."

"Understood." The line went silent. For a moment, Nightwing thought he'd just missed hearing the click of Gordon hanging up the phone, but then the older man's voice came through again. "You watch out for yourself, Son. It looks like we're going to be needing you out here beyond tonight."

"Will do, Commissioner," Nightwing said, disconnecting. He turned to Robin. "See that cenotaph coming up?" He asked. "As soon as you're in range, get your grapnel around it, and jump."

* * *

Anarky was growing impatient. "Come on, Batman," he muttered. "What's keeping you, and the rest of your army?" What if he didn't figure it out in time? It was less than a half hour to midnight. He whipped out the flare gun that had brought Batman to him the last time he had fired it. He couldn't wait any longer… 

Just then, a black-clad figure swung by on a decel cable. Not Batman, but he would do.

Scarecrow spotted the vigilante and started swearing. He was so close… so close to having his scheme succeed. There was no hope for it, now but a strategic retreat. He began to run.

In a smooth, controlled motion, Anarky leveled his flare gun and fired a blast ahead of the fleeing madman. The impact knocked him off his feet to land before a looming Azrael.

"It's over, Scarecrow," said the man in ninja garb.

"Well now, my tall, dark, stranger," Crane wheezed, clenching his fist, "excuse me if I beg to differ!" Thin, needle-like shafts flew from his glove, triggered by the flexing of his fingers.

Azrael hesitated. Under the System's influence, what would… what _could _he possibly fear? Curiosity warred with common sense. The latter won. Now was not the time to find out. The Kevlar of his costume protected him, as he took care not to let the darts near the exposed skin of his upper face. Swiftly he rammed his elbow into the straw man's solar plexus. "I said it was over," he gritted through clenched teeth. "I meant it!" He knocked the thinner man onto his back.

Astonishingly, Scarecrow swung his feet upward, catching Azrael in the abdomen and flipping him forward. "I'm no cheap street punk, masked man!" He proclaimed. "I stand poised on the edge of godhood. And no mere mortal will stop me!"

Azrael recovered in mid-fall, and landed on his feet. Scarecrow arose to take a fighting stance. "I've always preferred to rely on my natural genius," he sneered, "but I'm not averse to a spot of rough and tumble!" He lunged forward. "The crane style," he volunteered by way of information as he delivered a kick to Azrael's chin. "Apt. Don't you think?" As Azrael went down, Crane kicked him again. "No defense against it, they say!" He taunted, moving in for yet another kick.

That was what Azrael had been waiting for. He seized Scarecrow's extended leg, dragging the lanky man down. "I guess they lied," he snapped. "You're going to suffer for what you've done!

"Ooh," Crane taunted, "I'm terrified! Don't you know a man who fears suffering is already suffering from what he fears?"

Azrael had one hand on Crane's throat. Swiftly, he punched the prone man in the jaw with his other hand. "Really?"

Without warning, a large net fell from above to settle atop them both. What…? Azrael looked up quickly. His eyes narrowed. "Anarky!"

"In person," the red-clad figure confirmed. "Unfortunately for you!"

"You young fool! Get me out of here," he snapped. "Don't you realize what this madman's up to?"

Anarky didn't move. "Only too well," he agreed, but as you'll note, he too is my prisoner."

Behind his back, Azrael extracted a knife from a compartment in his belt and began sawing away at the net. "Why? Just what's your game?"

"Scarecrow will be going back to Arkham. You, on the other hand, I'm not sure about."

"Phil!" Scarecrow bellowed. "Take him. I order it!" Suddenly, the all-but-forgotten boy in scarecrow tatters rushed forward. Face expressionless, he swung hard and connected with Anarky's face. The gold mask flew off. Azrael's eyes widened as he looked into the now-apprehensive eyes of a boy Robin's age, perhaps a year or so older. That was all her registered before Scarecrow fired off another volley of needles from his glove.

There was no time, or possibility to block this round, hampered by the net as he was. He barely registered that some of the missiles had hit the boy in red as well, and that the Herold boy had helped Crane free. Wave after wave of fear washed through him. Who… what was Azrael? Without the System, without the mask, he was nothing! Helpless… useless… but, somehow, the System was fighting back, forcing him to stand, to shrug off the remains of the net. _Wasn't he even allowed to be afraid? Or was the system going to forbid that as well?_

Scarecrow gaped at him. "Impossible! That's concentrated fear; you should be out for an hour."

Azrael towered over him. "Someone once said… the only thing we have to fear is fear itself!" He kicked Crane into a patio table. "On your feet. You may be insane--but not so crazy I can't give you the beating you deserve!"

"Phil!" Scarecrow shouted. "Throw yourself off the roof!"

Part of Azrael yearned to leap after the boy. But… Azrael was the avenging angel. Azrael did not save. He destroyed. And stopping Scarecrow was the greater good…

The boy stood on the edge of the roof. As he began to take the first fatal step, Azrael took hold of Scarecrow. "You're going to let him die? I don't believe it!"

"Believe this!" Azrael said, punching Scarecrow hard enough to dislocate his jaw. Another blow, and he was down for the count. And that was when he heard another voice saying…

"Lonnie, it's okay. He's not going to fall. Relax. You're doing fine." It was Robin's voice. Nightwing was standing behind Anarky, helping him haul up his decel cable. One end was wrapped around the Herald boy's foot. As the rest of the boy became visible, Robin's head and upper torso emerged above the guardrail of the roof. "Nice work, Lonnie. Here. You can let go the rope, now… and give me a hand over."

The other youth complied. "He," he gestured shakily behind him. "He was going to let him fall. I had to--"

Robin nodded. "I know you did."

Nightwing advanced slowly toward Azrael, expression hard. Azrael lowered his eyes. Nightwing stood waiting. Finally, the elder of the two looked up. Nightwing frowned at him. Then came a blow that he did not telegraph. Reeling, Azrael slumped against the patio door. Nightwing stalked away without a backward glance.

He dropped his hand on Robin's shoulder. He looked at Anarky. "I agree with what he said earlier. You did good work. Keep it up, and we won't have any quarrel with you."

He turned to Robin. "C'mon. Let's get Phil, here to a doctor. Then we can call it a night."


	16. Chapter 15: Fights and Flights

Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later.

_Secret Garden_ lyrics by Lucy Simon and Marsha Norman. Copyright 1991 by Sony Music Entertainment Inc. _Into the Woods_ lyrics by Stephen Sondheim. Copyright 1988 by BMG Music. "Heart and Soul" written by Hoagy Carmichael and Frank Loesser. Copyright 1939.

**Chapter 15**

**Fights and Flights**

Dick waved aside the plate of cookies that Callie held out to him. "Just out of curiosity," he snapped, "what would have been enough to get your people out there, tonight? Darkseid and Doomsday?"

Cal shook her head. "Actually, I almost had to physically restrain Jill."

"You did." He blinked.

"She gets a bit gung-ho about things like this," she admitted

Callie's mild response increased his confusion. "So… why…"

"Bruce."

"Bruce?" He stared at her, aware that his heart rate had suddenly quickened. Had something happened to Bruce, tonight? But even as his mind considered the possibility, it rejected it. Callie and Bronwen were behaving far too calmly. He glanced at Callie's older sister. She returned his gaze, keeping one finger down, to hold her place in the book that she had been reading before Dick had stormed into the north wing kitchen, a picture of righteous indignation.

Callie nodded seriously. "He said you'd be able to handle Scarecrow without Psion Force's assistance. From the reports, it sounded like he was right on that score."

Dick glowered. "Yeah, just barely." He shook his head in disbelief. "You know he told me he couldn't have a partner around because it was too dangerous. Every time we've worked together, since then, he's treated me like I'm still some wet-behind-the-ears kid. He didn't call me in, this time because he didn't want me facing most of Arkham--"

"And Tim?" Bronwen cut in, quietly.

Dick blinked in confusion. "Tim?"

"He's younger than you are. Less experienced. Yet, Bruce trusted him on the streets. Do you believe that he would have trusted you less?"

"No," Dick admitted. "That doesn't make any sense. But--"

"Actions often speak louder than words," Bronwen said mildly. "But motivation… that's something else again. If you don't mind, we could try taking a step back, and looking at the data. Maybe a working hypothesis'll suggest itself." Without waiting for an answer, she continued. "Fact: Bruce told you that he did not want you as his partner. Several years ago. Inference: things have been strained between you since then."

Dick set himself down in one of the empty chairs. He reached absently for a cookie. "That's another fact, actually."

"I didn't want to make donkeys out of the pair of us, but that was my initial assumption," Bronwen murmured. "Fact," she went on, business-like again, "you've just told me your opinion of his motives for that. Inference: he was aware of your views on the subject. Fact: despite a highly volatile situation tonight, he insisted that you would be able to handle things without standby reinforcements. Possible conclusions at this time would be, one: he really doesn't like you as much as you thought…" She struggled to maintain a deadpan expression. Her eyes betrayed her. "Or, two…"

_This was his way of telling me he trusts me out there. Cripes, he told _them _as much! Why couldn't he have told me to my face, I wonder?_ He shook his head, amazed that he'd even thought of the question. When had Bruce ever said something like that to his face? And when, he reflected, was the last time he'd said anything to Bruce that hadn't led to a fight between them? Bruce wasn't a talker. What else was new? And what, Dick wondered, was his own excuse? Fear? Fear that after spilling his guts out to Bruce, Bruce would reciprocate, but say something along the lines of "I'm sorry. Bringing you in was a mistake. I tried to make the best of it, but at least, now I can stop pretending, stop living a lie…" Dick shook his head, as if he could shake those hateful words out of it. Because he knew, knew with a clarity that astounded him, that if Bruce were ever to say anything approaching those words, then _that_ would be the lie.

From the moment that Tabitha had come to New York to apprise him of the situation, until the moment that he had seen for himself that Bruce was alive and likely to remain so, Dick had been berating himself, horrified that it might really be too late for he and Bruce to clear the air between them. And now, here he was, practically jumping at the chance to add another pollutant. _Keep on performing the actions you usually perform, and don't be surprised if you keep on getting the results you usually get._ Maybe, just maybe, he should work on himself, before he started expecting Bruce to change.

"Are you alright?" Callie asked, concerned.

Dick nodded. "I think so. Where's Bruce, now?"

Callie raised an eyebrow. "Sleeping, I would guess. He turned in about three hours ago."

"Scarecrow was still at large three hours ago. No way he'd be able to sleep, knowing that."

"Actually," Bronwen mused aloud, "herbal tea can be soporific. Particularly when a certain butler manages to dissolve ones sedatives therein."

Dick frowned. "Alfred wouldn't--" he stopped himself. In point of fact, if he thought it was warranted, Alfred absolutely would.

"Speaking of herbal teas," Callie said, "I was just about to get myself a cup. Did you want one, too?" She placed one hand over her heart. "Nothing but teabag, hot water, and optional sweetener and lemon."

Dick shook his head. "Maybe later," he said, biting into the cookie. His eyes widened. "This is _good_!"

"Thank-you," Callie smiled slightly, then frowned. "I thought the others would be back with you."

Dick swallowed the last of the cookie. "Tim went home."

Callie waited. She got up and filled a teacup from the hot water urn, then poured the water into a second cup. Dick was silent. She dunked a teabag into the cup. Still Dick said nothing. Finally, as she retook her seat, cup in hand, Callie said, "I gather something else happened out there that won't be in tomorrow's papers."

He nodded slightly. "Who is Azrael? How did he end up involved in all of this?"

Callie raised an eyebrow. "I've been waiting for someone to tell me. About all Tim divulged was that Bruce had asked him to give Azrael some training. I had other things on my mind, so I didn't exactly pry. As far as my own impressions," she hesitated. "Okay, I can tell you he's intense… driven… focused." She smiled self-consciously. "Fine, that probably describes most of the costumed crowd at one time or another. But… it's more," she frowned as she tried to find the right words, "like he's… pushing himself down a path… and he has no clue where it leads… and he's not the least bit curious." She considered. "He strikes me as a soldier. One who'll obey orders without questioning. And that scares me."

Dick nodded. "Whose orders, though?"

"I don't know," Callie admitted. "And that scares me, more."

Dick finished the cookie and reached for another. "Any more improvement from Bruce?"

Callie shook her head. "No changes since this afternoon. It's probably too soon to know. But--"

"You've never done anything like this before, so there's no real way to be sure," he finished wearily. "You sounded a lot more encouraging this afternoon, you know."

"Did I?" Callie raised an eyebrow. She sighed. "I suppose I did. Question, then: would you have any experience walking a high wire?"

Dick shot her a look comparable to one Albert Einstein might have employed had she asked him whether he was conversant with Newton's third law.

Callie blushed. "Silly question, sorry. Here's a more intelligent one: what do you do, in the event that you feel your body swaying overly toward the left when you're partway across?"

"You compensate by deliberately swaying right."

"But then don't you run the risk of toppling over on the other side?"

Dick slowly shook his head. "Not if you strike the right balance." Comprehension dawned. "That's what you're doing, here."

"Exactly. I don't want to build up false hopes… but I don't want to strike down legitimate ones either. And his outlook needs to be considered as well. Natalie told you his frame of mind when he first regained consciousness. If he believes that his recovery will be limited… well, chances are it will be. If, on the other hand, he thinks everything will come back, then there's the risk that he'll try to do too much too soon, and lose whatever gains he makes."

The young man nodded, frowning. "What else?"

Callie hesitated. "Maybe nothing. Hopefully nothing."

"But--"

She drew a deep breath. "Projecting has its drawbacks. But that's what I'm about to do. Because, bottom line, I don't know him. But I do know _me_." She paused again. "I skipped adolescence. Or experienced it outside of the normal sequence, at any rate."

Dick gaped at her. "What?" And what in the world did that have to do with anything?

Callie shrugged. "I was, for all intents and purposes, a single mother at the age of ten, doing my best to bring up my two youngest sisters. By the time I was thirteen, I might as well have been thirty in my mindset. Teenagers are supposed to be these whirlwinds of conflicting emotions, hormones, angst, and confusion. I… decided that I couldn't afford to deal with any of those. So, I didn't. Everything got suppressed, locked down, swept under the rug…until I couldn't remember a time when the ceiling hadn't seemed so low.

"Someone else can fill you in on the long version, if you're so inclined," she continued. "The short one is that I almost had a breakdown when I was seventeen. And it took a great support network, one major node of which is sharing the table with us, right now," she cast a grateful look at Bronwen, who lowered her eyes, and looked vaguely embarrassed, "to pull me back from that particular cliff." But, bottom line is that knowing what I was supposed to be going through, and making a conscious decision to… not go through it… or, at best, to 'blitz' through it, was a stopgap measure. And it only made things harder down the road." She waited for Dick to meet her eyes.

"Trust me. I'm not one to make the mistake of thinking that Bruce is stupid. The problem actually is… that he's smart. He _has_ to know that after the kind of pressure he's been under… look, Alfred told me he'd been seeing the same doctor that's been looking after Tim's father… because he'd been burning out, even before Arkham happened."

_He was seeing a doctor _because _he was burning out? _Dick's jaw dropped. "Y-you mean, as in, a… therapist?" Tabitha had told him that Bruce hadn't been himself lately, but he'd never guessed…

Callie closed her eyes. "Let's just say _I_ didn't prescribe his sedatives. Anyway, now, he has hope. And that's important. But if he's using that hope as an excuse not to deal with the other issues, if he's deluding himself that a few nights of uninterrupted sleep and a few days chatting with an upbeat six-year-old have fixed everything…" She opened her eyes again.

"Bron, I'm going to steal one of your analogies."

Her older sister grinned. "Let me guess. The hole in the roof?"

"I thought your talent was retrocognition, not clairvoyance; yes, that's the one." She drew a deep breath. "Old story, actually. There's a man with a hole in the roof of his house. So, when the rain comes pouring in, he suffers. And, in that downpour, he can't exactly fix it. But… when the sun comes out, he no longer has any incentive to fix it. Because he's not getting wet anymore." Callie gazed solemnly at Dick. "You _do_ see where I'm going with this one, don't you?"

Dick frowned, nodding. "You're saying that his… issues are like the hole… everything that's happened in the last little while, up to--and including Bane would be the rain, and… hope…"

"If he doesn't fix the hole, it's going to hurt him down the road, and probably sooner rather than later."

"Is it possible," Dick asked hesitantly, "that whatever help he's been getting from that doctor, and from Alfred and you, and the rest of your family, has been enough, after all?"

"Anything's possible," Callie agreed with a sad smile. "Do you believe that it is, though?"

"How can I help?" Dick asked, ignoring her question.

"The way you have been, so far. Just… be there. Something else. And, again, this is _me_, not necessarily him." She cast a rueful glance at her sister. "Bronwen can vouch for this one. I did a lot of shouting--"

"Constantly--" Bronwen broke in.

"I threw things--"

"Heavy, sharp, pointy things--"

"And lashed out--"

"Vehemently--"

"Do you mind?" Callie asked testily, but her eyes belied the belligerence of her tone.

"Big sisters needle. Little sisters take it. Deal with it," Bronwen rejoined. "What Callie's trying to say is that if Bruce lashes out at you, try to remember he's not necessarily doing it because he's mad at you. He's probably doing it because you're _there_. If you think you can handle that, _col ha-kavod_." At Dick's puzzled expression, she translated, "more power to you. But if you can't, speaking as someone who _has_ been in a somewhat comparable situation, if, _chas veshalom_, it were me in that wheelchair again, I'd rather you left before I got the idea into my head that you were sticking around for the long haul." She looked steadily at Dick. "I'd probably behave as badly as I could to give you an out, and once you didn't take it, I'd decide it was safe to let my guard down. If you walked out after that…" Seeing Dick's quick nod of understanding, she left the sentence unfinished.

Callie seemed about to protest, then reconsidered. "It may sound harsh, but I think she's right."

Dick absorbed that. "I'll… try to be there," he said softly. It wasn't going to be a picnic, though. "Thanks. At least that gives me a better picture of what we're dealing with, here."

Both young women nodded. Callie cleared her throat. "If you _do _need to vent, one of us is generally around."

Dick smiled faintly. "I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

Consciousness returned slowly, the next morning. It felt like his mind was wrapped in cotton, and his mouth was dry. What… _Alfred_. His thoughts cleared, as the elderly man entered carrying a breakfast tray. 

"Good morning, Master Bruce," he said. "I trust you slept well."

Bruce glowered. "You made sure of that, didn't you, Old Friend?" He twisted the last words sarcastically, but their tone appeared lost on their target.

"Indeed, Sir. If I might point out that denying your body its necessary rest over a long period of time was part and parcel of the factors contributing to your previous condition of burnout--"

The scowl fell away instantly. "And my… immediate condition," Bruce said softly.

"I would not presume to state that, Master Bruce," Alfred said.

Bruce shook his head. "You don't have to, Old Friend. I know. I may have a… a blind spot about some things, but not that. I know." He watched intently as Alfred set the tray down on the nightstand. The older man's expression bespoke sadness and concern, but showed none of the anguish that would have been evident had things gone awry the evening prior.

"Is Dick up, yet?"

Alfred shook his head. "Young Master Dick returned home toward the wee hours of the morning, in a state of near exhaustion. I shouldn't expect him to awaken much before noon."

"But he's alright."

"Apart from a few superficial injuries, yes. Master Valley, however, did not return with him, and his whereabouts are currently unknown."

Bruce nodded, unconcerned. Jean-Paul did, after all have his own apartment in Newtown. In all likelihood, he had returned there for the night.

He waited for Alfred to exit, before levering himself into a sitting position, and taking a mental inventory of his physical condition. His injuries no longer hurt him to the same degree… or perhaps he had automatically started masking the pain again. Frustration and dismay warred with elation, as he realized that under its splint… his left leg was itching. Abominably. He was cognizant of the weight of the blankets over both legs, another promising sign. His hopes faded, however, when he attempted to move them. _There's no yardstick against which you can measure the speed of your recovery. You know that,_ he thought furiously. Patience was a virtue that he had learned--not something that came to him naturally. And, in situations such as this, situations where he could not tell himself that by holding off on nabbing some strung-out street rat, he stood a strong chance of collaring a major dealer, situations where, to put it bluntly, he had no idea how long he would need to wait for results, his lessons deserted him. More to distract himself from his leg, he steered his thoughts toward the previous evening...

He was actually surprised by how much he had enjoyed the time spent with the Aaronson clan. Usually, his meals were of three sorts. First, were the society or charity dinners he was forced to attend for appearances sake, where he indulged in foods which he didn't enjoy, in order to occupy himself so that he wouldn't say what was on his mind when J. Devlin Davenport spouted one of his usual asinine comments about how the city poor would vanish if the Wayne Foundation loans didn't make poverty so attractive. He actually _would_ enjoy tearing Davenport down, but of course, that wouldn't be in keeping with the good-natured airhead playboy façade. So, every time he got the urge to open his mouth to tell J. Devlin exactly what he could do with his economic theories, Bruce caught himself, and inserted another canapé, or piece of maki, or bite of steak Tartare, and wished that he was facing Hatter, or Riddler, or anyone else he could cold-cock without creating a social faux pas. At this rate, on top of everything else, he mused, he should have developed an ulcer long ago.

Parties aside, his meals were generally consumed in the kitchen, when he was alone, and in the dining room when Dick or Tim was around. Ordinarily, he ate in the kitchen. Alfred kept him company, but considered it improper to eat, himself, until Bruce had finished. In the past, Bruce had argued, but the elderly gentleman stood firm. In point of fact, Bruce was more uncomfortable being the only one in the room who was eating than eating alone.

Which was generally what happened. Alfred would bring a tray to his bedroom, or to the cave. Bruce would ignore it until Alfred left, and then he would eat… at least when he wasn't trying to mentally review a crime scene for the fortieth time. Or trying to predict Joker's next score… Or reviewing his cold case files…

Last night, for the first time in a long time, he had just sat and listened to the conversation around him, occasionally joining in, but mostly listening, and he had eaten and enjoyed. Before the meal, Jaime had taken pains to fill him in on a few things he hadn't known…

"After Uncle Brandon makes _Kiddush, _we all get grape juice… an' then we go wash our hands. And after we wash, we can't talk until we eat a piece of _challah_…"

"Finish your chicken, Jaime," Jill interrupted. Since dinner was unlikely to start before ten, the boy was eating the bulk of his meal early. "And Bruce doesn't have to do that if he doesn't want to." She smiled apologetically. "Of course," she told Bruce, "you won't have anyone to talk _to_, until we have a bite of the bread."

"I made it!" Jaime announced.

Bruce looked up sharply.

Jill shrugged. "He braided it, so he gets some credit. The rest goes to his mother."

"It's probably more than I could do," Bruce admitted. "Is there a reason for the silence?"

"When I asked that question, it was explained to me," Jill said, nodding, "that there's not supposed to be a pause between washing the hands and partaking of the meal. Since the meal officially starts with the blessings over the grape juice and the bread, any talking not relevant to the task at hand would constitute a break. If the bread somehow wasn't on the table, it would be fine to ask for it, though, since the asking would be relevant."

Bruce half-smiled. "What would happen if someone did speak at that time?"

"Oh, we get struck by lightning," Jill deadpanned.

"Jill!" Callie hissed, as Natalie burst into laughter.

"Sorry!" the younger woman exclaimed trying to stifle her own giggles. "But you should just see your face--" She took a deep breath. "Sorry. No, we just have to wash again is all."

"You can ask me if you want to know anything else," Jaime volunteered importantly.

"And you can ask Callie or Brandon, if you want to know the right answers," Maybelle broke in.

Jaime looked down. "Very funny."

Bruce put a hand on the small boy's shoulder. "Where do I sit, tonight?" He asked, although, looking at the table, he had a fairly good idea.

Jaime brightened. "See at the end of the table where there's a plate but there's no chair?"

_Theory confirmed_, Bruce noted with some satisfaction.

The time had passed swiftly until Brandon returned from synagogue, and they had sat down to the table. Once the grape juice and bread were consumed, Sophie cleared her throat. "Jaime," she said, "bedtime."

"I'm not tired," he protested.

"What does that have to do with it?"

"Please…"

"No whining."

"How about grape juicing?" Brandon interjected.

Jaime giggled. Sophie shot her brother a deadly glare. "You're not helping."

Callie drew a deep breath. "If you don't go to bed at a regular time, you'll be tired in the morning. It's already late. Go on."

Jaime sighed acquiescence. "Aunt Callie?" he asked, frowning. "Do _you_ have a reg'lar bedtime?"

Callie blinked. She cast a rueful glance in Bruce's direction. Finally, she said "and if I were jumping off the roof, would you jump, too?"

Bruce recognized the fallacy of that argument the instant before Jaime responded thoughtfully…

"Well, since you're tel-e-kin-e-tic and I can lev'tate…"

Bruce actually _saw_ Natalie pinch herself in an effort not to burst out laughing afresh. It might have succeeded, had Tabitha not rested her cheek to the tablecloth, pounding the surface with her fist. Truth be told, Bruce was finding it hard not to join them.

"Jaime!" Sophie said sharply. "Enough."

Jaime sobered. "Sorry, _Ima_," he said, throwing his arms around her. "Good night." Sophie bent down to kiss him. He returned the favor, and whispered something in her ear.

His mother nodded. "But, fast," she added.

Bruce watched as Jaime made his way around the table. "G'night, Aunt Tabitha… G'night, Aunt Jill… G'night, Uncle Brandon…" Each 'G'night' brought on its own display of affection. Bruce sighed mentally. He thought he must have been like that when he had been Jaime's age, although he was hard-pressed to remember. He felt a pang of sorrow for the boy he had been, until that night in the alley… and a small hand pressed gently on his. He looked down.

"G'night, Bruce," Jaime said, wrapping his arms around his neck, and planting a kiss on his cheek." Bruce automatically returned the hug, realizing that the boy must have floated to attain his current perch. How had he _not _seen that one coming? Everyone else at the table seemed suddenly preoccupied with their _gefilte _fish (or, in Tabitha's case, vegetable pate). After a moment, Jaime dropped lightly down. "G'night, Aunt Natalie…"

* * *

"We have _got_ to talk," Dick said without preamble, as he entered the library. 

Bruce pushed himself away from the shelf of forensic tomes. _Might as well get this over with_, he sighed inwardly, resigned to another verbal battle. Truthfully, holding Psion Force back last night had been one of the hardest things he had done in a long time… up to and including the events of the last few weeks. It had been a catch-22, no question about it. If he'd ordered Psion Force out, Dick would have seen it as a lack of confidence on Bruce's part. Not sending them would bring the accusation that he expected Dick to be Batman and shun outside assistance. A decision had to be made, and Bruce had made it, and stood by it. Now, he braced himself for the consequences. "Alright," he said steadily.

"Azrael's a complete looneytunes."

Both of Bruce's eyebrows shot up. "Explain."

As Dick proceeded to do so, Bruce's eyes widened. Speeding off in the Batmobile was one thing, but then… the savage attacks on the local riffraff… Yes, Batman did meet violence with violence, but always it was a calculated response. He was an enforcer, not a brutalizer. Bruce had listened to police band last night, heard the ambulance crew reports on the state of the victims, and hoped that none of his three protégés had been involved in that level of viciousness, but he'd had a suspicion… He closed his eyes, willing himself to face what he had deliberately overlooked, the evening before. Someone could have died at Azrael's hands. The fact that nobody had was sheer luck. Suddenly, his ears registered something that made him lean forward in disbelief. He hadn't just heard Dick say--

"Azrael did _what_?"

Dick broke off his tirade. "That's right, Bruce," he said evenly. "Scarecrow told the kid to kill himself, expecting Az to break off the attack and go save him. Az kept right on using Crane for a punching bag. If Anarky hadn't been there, maybe Robin and I could have gotten there in time--I'm not saying we couldn't have--but it would have been way too close to call. Where did you find this guy, anyway?"

"Switzerland," Bruce said. "Although it wasn't until Houston that we officially met." He sketched the details briefly: his investigation into the cause of a riot that had claimed the life of a lady friend whom he had casually dated, had put him on the trail of an arms dealer, and led him to the Order of Saint Dumas. "Azrael," Bruce continued, "is the name given to the member of the Order charged with… punishing… those members disloyal to its ideals. It appears to be a hereditary honour, with each… Azrael… training his son to follow in his footsteps."

Dick frowned. "So, you brought in a known murderer?" He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"No. Not in the way you're thinking." He hesitated. "'Training' was a poor choice of words. Valley Senior programmed the requisite skills and knowledge into his son's subconscious. It started in early childhood…perhaps younger. Jean Paul didn't choose that life." Bruce looked away. "In point of fact, he overrode the programming to save _my_ life." He turned back to Dick again. "I thought that with the proper re-education, it might be possible to countermand whatever his father… did to him." He hesitated. "Who knows? It might be. But the risk of him being on the streets is unacceptable. When he comes back to the manor, I'll tell him as much." He drew a deep breath. "As things stand, if I order him away, he's likely to turn rogue. With additional guidance, it may be that things could work out differently. Initially, I had Tim supervising his training. I don't believe that's a wise decision anymore, based on your information."

"Are you asking me to--"?

"I'm suggesting that you might need a sparring partner to train with. Tim's not near enough to your level, and right now, I can't." He looked steadily at Dick. "Plus, if you were able to stop Scarecrow, last night, I have every confidence that you'll be able to handle Azrael, should the…System overtake him again."

Dick considered. "After we got the Herold kid back to solid ground, I… let Azrael know… in fairly direct terms… that I was ticked off."

"You hit him," Bruce translated.

Dick smiled quickly. "Only once. Just so you know, if taking you up on that suggestion means you want me to apologize for my… um… directness, it ain't happening."

A brief answering smile appeared on Bruce's face. "Fair enough." His expression turned serious. "I meant what I said, just now. Scarecrow is not an… easy one to defeat."

"Yeah," Dick agreed. "Well. I mean, I had Robin helping me, so it was a little easier. But it was still a long night."

Bruce nodded. "Nothing you couldn't handle, though."

"Nothing I couldn't handle," Dick shook his head, smiling.

* * *

Dick drew Tabitha aside after lunch. "Got a second?" 

Tabitha nodded. She followed him down the stairs to the main floor.

"You're going to have to tell me," he said, "if there's any way we can talk without running into the situation we ran into in Manhattan. Because I don't think you want word getting back to Bruce ahead of time."

"Outside," Tabitha said quickly. "As long as we're near enough the house that someone can see us out the window, it's not a problem."

"Sure?" Dick asked with a frown. "You're not rationalizing or anything?"

Tabitha sighed. "No. The whole issue is that I can't be in an isolated place with you, where nobody could see us. It doesn't matter whether anyone _does_, just that it could easily happen. Otherwise, I'd have a problem any time I walked into a service station to pay for my gas. Outside in plain view is fine."

Dick nodded, and led her through a set of double doors to a drawing room. Tabitha's eyes lit up. "He's got a piano! Oh, wow, wait until Maybelle gets a look at this!"

Dick laughed. "Slow down. Nobody's touched that thing in years. It's probably so off-key it makes Edith Bunker sound like she's got perfect pitch. C'mon." He pushed open a second set of doors at the opposite end of the room, which opened into a larger, dimly lit space with a dark-paneled walls, and a polished floor. Upholstered couches and chairs ranged along the walls. Three chandeliers hung at intervals from the ceiling. Dick ignored them, strode purposefully to the French doors at the far wall, and bent down to pull back the bolt that latched the doors shut about a foot or so from the ground. He turned the key to release the main lock, and then reached up to twist the recessed latch.

"He doesn't take chances," Tabitha remarked.

"Remember, Bruce usually isn't home at night," Dick said. "He got worried about Alfred here all by himself." He tapped lightly on one of the clear panes set in the door. "Plexiglas," he identified. "Bullet proof, shatter proof, sniper proof. Don't let its looks fool you. This place is a fortress." Tabitha nodded, duly impressed. Dick held open the door, and gestured to the patio beyond. "After you."

Tabitha made her way to a lounge chair. Dick chose a second one. "I did speak with Gordon, last night, about your idea," he said. "He thinks he'll have something ready by Wednesday."

Tabitha blinked. "Seriously? They're going to actually do it?"

"Looks like it."

"How do you think Bruce is going to react?"

Dick shook his head slowly. "I don't know. I think this is the first time anybody's ever done anything like this for him."

"You never gave him a 'get-well-soon' card?"

"No," Dick chuckled. "You know, I don't think I ever did."

A sparrow lit down from a nearby tree, and perched on the wrought-iron table, some feet away from where they were sitting. It cocked its head at them and chirped softly.

"I don't suppose you've got any bread on you," Tabitha asked. At the sound of her voice, the bird flew off again. She smiled ruefully. "Oops."

Dick grinned in commiseration. "He'll be back."

"She."

"She?"

"The males have black chest feathers. Kind of like bibs. That one was all light brown."

"Okay," Dick raised his hands in mock surrender. "I'll bow to your superior wisdom. Speaking of which," he segued, "I think I'm going to visit Barbara in a little bit. Anything you want me to pass on to her?"

"No, I'll talk to her tonight. Oh, actually… are there any cookies left? Yesterday afternoon, I mentioned what Callie put in them, and she sounded like she wanted to try a couple."

"You told her about them?" Dick grinned in sudden realization. "I was wondering how she knew."

* * *

"Don't ask me that, Dick," Barbara snapped. "Don't you dare ask me to--" 

"What?" Dick asked, mystified and more than a little angry. "Come by the manor? Maybe let him talk to somebody who--"

"Who what?" Barbara interrupted. "Who's also in a wheelchair? You think that little fact gives me more credibility than a trained professional would have?"

"No! Someone who knows about what he's done with his nights for the last decade or so, _and_ has some idea what he's lost."

Barbara screwed her eyes shut. She gripped the arms of her chair until her knuckles whitened. "Dick," she said in an entirely different voice, "I--what you're asking… you're right. But I can't. Not now." She drew a deep, shuddering breath, and exhaled slowly. "It's too soon. I'm sorry. Please. I can't."

Dick walked over to her, deliberately squeaking his shoes on the hardwood floor to alert her to his approach. He placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, too," he said finally. "I guess, I thought when you started up as Oracle, you'd--"

"No," Barbara said, shaking her head, but the rancour had gone out of her voice. "I started up as Oracle, because I needed to feel like I was still able to do some good out there. Stupid, really. I'd retired Batgirl almost a year before… Joker. It's not like I needed a costume to define myself, or anything." She paused. "Maybe you're right about something you said before. About me having something in common with Bruce: we both created a persona… that took on a… a mythology of its own. He picked a bat. I picked a different mask. And when I'm behind that mask, I'm a million times more capable than I ever was. Including," she added with a smile, "all of those times I spent hauling _your_ bacon out of the crossfire, former Boy Wonder." She sobered. "But when I'm in Oracle-mode, I'm too busy worrying about the Suicide Squad's issues, or the JLA's issues, or the JSA's issues, to spare a second for my own issues." She paused again. "And that's what I'll have to address," she said quietly, "before I can think about doing what you're asking… to help Bruce with his… issues. And I am not ready to do that, yet. I'm sorry. I'm just… not"

Dick, thinking that she was finished, started to say something, but she cut him off. "I need more time," she said. "I can't tell you how much. But I'll work on it. Honestly." Her face crumpled. "Do you understand?"

He squeezed her shoulder, briefly. "Sure."

"And you're… you don't think I'm just being," she fought to keep her voice steady, "s-selfish?"

Dick moved in front of the chair, and took her hands in his. "Of course not. Take all the time you need."

* * *

(**Tabitha)**

Callie comes into my room about an hour after Shabbos ends. I'm lying on the bed, reading. My costume's handy, just in case, but I don't think I'm allowed out yet. The others are already on patrol, and Cal's holding a bundle of green and beige in her arms.

"I spoke to Bran about the situation," She says.

I sit up. "And?"

She sits down on the bed next to me, still looking serious.

I sigh. "He's still mad at me, isn't he?"

"Yes and no. He'd have been a lot angrier if you'd gone off on a whim, for no good reason. But, even though you did have a good reason--"

"I should have cleared it with you, first," I say miserably.

"Yes. Bottom line, he still doesn't want to work with you. The others don't really have a problem. But, I think, given the circumstances, your presence with the team might prove slightly distracting."

My big brother's code name ought to be Snitman. Right. I'm totally blameless in all of this. Sure. But Callie's got a point. If Bran's ticked off at me, unfortunately the team's… oh, call them 'rhythms', I guess, are going to suffer. Not a heck of a lot, but it's all cumulative. _It's not fair!_ And just a little while ago, wasn't I promising myself I was going to try to look at the big picture a little more? Well, from a big-picture perspective, from a team perspective… Bran's right. He's wrong, but he's right. Fine. I look at Cal. "Am I off the team, then?" At least my voice didn't wobble.

Callie puts her arm around me and pulls me into a hug. "Well, for the next little while. But maybe that's for the best."

Whaaat? I start squirming to get away.

"At ease," she says gently. "There's something else I need you to do… if you're so inclined."

Oh. Okay. "What?"

"Reconnaissance. At the moment, all that we know about Bane can be summed up as follows: he's intelligent and methodical. He's also dependant on a performance-enhancing drug, called Venom. While under its influence, he has near superhuman strength and endurance."

Nice. "And this reconnaissance--"

"Before Bane was able to do… what he did to Batman, he did a fairly thorough study of his intended target. I think we owe him the same courtesy. I want you to find him," she says, "and then," she enunciates, slowly, "I want you to find out everything you can. His personal habits, his hobbies, his favourite colour… you name it--but--do not engage him. Do not be seen. If you even suspect that he _has_ seen you, report back here immediately." She puts her other hand on my upper arm. "Think you're up for it?"

Am I? On a scale of one to eighteen, my stealth ranks seventeen. Ditto my espionage. I'm not _off_ the team… just away for a little while. That's why she's going along with Bran's hissy fit. He doesn't want me around, so he's happy. We _do_ need all the intel on Bane we can get, so me _getting _it will keep Cal happy. And as long as I'm not stuck here, twiddling my thumbs… I'll be happy. "Sure," I say eagerly. "When do I start?"

Callie smiles at me, and gets up off the bed. "Take one more night off, and start tomorrow. And, Tabitha," she adds, "please be careful."

"I will," I say. "Don't worry. I'll do this right," I grin, and project my voice a little louder. "Do you _proud_!"

She adjusts her grip on the costume. "Why don't you set yourself a real challenge?" she says, on her way out the door. "Do yourself proud."

* * *

I think it's Wednesday afternoon. When you're on summer vacation, it's sometimes hard to tell. We're all in that drawing room with the piano that Dick took me through on Shabbos, on the way to the patio. Well, all of us except Jaime, who's at day camp, and Bronwen, who has to work. Maybelle and Jill are givinga littleconcert. Dick was wrong, by the way. The piano's in perfect shape. Between the two of them, they've been running the gamut from classical, to jazz, to Broadway, to fifties torch songs. I don't know how Bruce is enjoying it, but he's been in here for an hour, and he doesn't look like he wants to leave any time soon. At first, I was hoping Jill would start running through all the musical numbers for the TRAFICK productions, but I saw her point about how most of the lyrics might make certain people uncomfortable. I mean, let's see. _Secret Garden_ has lines like: 

_High on a hill there's a big old house with something wrong inside it _

_Spirits walk the halls and make no effort now _

_To hide it…_

Or,

_I heard someone crying _

_Who though could it be? _

_Maybe it was mother _

_Calling out come see _

_Maybe it was father _

_All alone and lost and cold _

_I heard someone crying _

_Maybe it was me_

Cheerful stuff. As for _Into the Woods_, well, lines like

_Do not put your faith in a cape and a hood_

_They will not protect you the way that they should…_

And

_No more questions, please_

_No more quests_

_There comes the day you say 'what for?'_

_Just… no more_

Don't strike me as the best way to help Bruce take his mind off things. Not that Jill's singing, mind you, but there are a couple of things we need to remember. One: assume Batman knows absolutely everything about everything. It's safer. Two: Dick mentioned to me that Alfred used to be on the London stage before he came to work for the Wayne family. It's extremely probable that he'd know the lyrics, and barely possible that he might vocalize them. Still, Jill's managed to find a few gems in both scores. It's while she's going through "Winter's on the Wing," the ballad that Jeff's going to perform in the first act of _Secret Garden_, that Alfred leaves to answer the door.

A minute later, he's escorting Jean-Paul Valley into the drawing room. Bruce looks up. By now, we've all heard about what happened on Friday night. Valley saunters in, not seeming to realize he's in trouble. This should be good.

"Keep playing," Bruce says. For the first time since I got back to Gotham, he sounds like Batman. "If you'll excuse us, Jean-Paul and I have to talk." He jerks his head to indicate that Valley should follow him into the ballroom--at least that's what Alfred told me it was called, I didn't know--on the other side of the double doors. Darn. I'm not going to overhear something that's… well, really none of my business, I guess, but still... Bruce closes the doors behind them. It's not until Jill finishes the song that we realize the ballroom isn't soundproof.

"That's garbage!" A furious voice bellows. "He had to be stopped for the greater good! That's what we do isn't it?"

I can't make out what Bruce is saying, but he sounds angrier than Jean Paul.

Valley's voice, however, comes through loud and clear. "Your… rules? Oh, yes, Bruce. I know all about your rules. And look at where they got you!"

I did _not_ just hear that.

"What. Did. You. Say."

Batman! So lovely to hear your voice again. Well, it _is_.

One of the doors opens, and Valley is standing at the entry, his back to the rest of us. "You're out of it," he practically sneers, "broken. Arguably, because you followed your oh-so-admirable rules." His voice drops an octave. "Is it not ironic, Bruce, that it was your own lessons that led me to that course of action? You, and that child you appointed as my instructor, taught me that to defeat a criminal, it is sometimes necessary to think like one. Taking a leaf from Bane's book, it occurred to me that Scarecrow would pose little threat to Gotham, if he were permanently," he pauses for a moment, drawing out the next word slowly, almost like he's savouring each syllable. "Disabled. After all," he adds, triumphantly, "it worked on you, didn't it?"

Oh, that tears it! That is it! I'm going to phase him halfway into the cave, and leave him in the ceiling! I'm going to hang him upside-down from that oak tree in the back and use him for shuriken practise! I'm going to hack the IRS and get him audited for the next forty years, and I'll make darned sure they find something new on him every single time! I'm going to--

Jean-Paul turns around, just then, and I see the smirk freeze on his face. I glance around the room. If looks could kill…

Is that what 'the glare' is? Think about everything you want to do to the other person, let them know what you're thinking, let them realize just how hard you're fighting not to cut loose… and let them worry that you just might lose that fight? Holy moly, I think I'm on to something.

As my mind goes blissfully off on its tangent, it's abruptly dragged back to reality by a crisp English voice saying: "Mister Valley, it would be prudent for you to leave these premises at once, as I can offer you no assurances as to your continued safety, should you choose to remain." He has one hand clamped firmly on Dick's wrist. Dick isn't struggling, but isn't happy about being held back, either. His other hand is around Tim's forearm, and his arm is across Tim's chest. _Tim_ is protesting. I wonder why Natalie the bully-hater isn't jumping up. Oh. Yeah, if there were a telekinetic force-field around me, and I couldn't phase, I don't think I'd be doing much jumping either.

_**Stay out of this. It isn't your fight.**_

Stop shouting in my head, Callie. My mind isn't deaf. I get the message.

Jean-Paul tries not to let anything show on his face. Not a bad attempt, really. If he ever learns to mask his body language he'll have something. "Don't worry about me, Alfred," he says glibly. "I'm not looking to you for protection."

"Mister Valley," Alfred says, and right now his tone could freeze the pond in Robinson Park at high noon in August, "I was not offering it. Now, might I strongly suggest that you vacate these grounds while you still retain full use of _your_ limbs."

I think I just found out where Bruce learned the Bat-voice. Even Dick looks stunned. Jean-Paul draws himself up straighter, and walks slowly out of the drawing room. Alfred releases Dick and Tim, and follows. "I shall show you to the exit," I hear him say.

Dick moves in the other direction. "I've got to see if he's okay," he mumbles as he brushes past. The double doors close behind him.

* * *

**(Dick)**

Of course the truth was that if I didn't run to check on Bruce, I was going to beat Valley so badly they'd need DNA profiling to identify what was left of him. (Note to self: verify if there's any way to neutralize that method. Just in case.) Anyway, I didn't think it would go over that well, me murdering Azrael after ranting to Bruce about exactly how the guy screwed up. Something about pots and kettles springs to mind.

I shut the doors to the drawing room. Bruce hasn't bothered to turn any of the lamps on. The only light in here is what's being filtered in through the drawn curtains, and the panes in the French doors. I don't have any trouble spotting Bruce, though. It's a little hard to miss a wheelchair in the middle of an empty floor.

"Bruce?"

He doesn't look at me. Doesn't even lift his head.

"Bruce?" I take a couple of steps closer. It's too quiet in here. My runners shouldn't be squeaking this loudly on the floor. And his breathing shouldn't sound this laboured.

"Leave me alone, Dick."

I'm trying to think whether I've ever heard him sound so… beaten. "Are you…"_Are you sure? Are you okay? Are you actually going to believe the bile that brainwashed idiot just spewed at you?_

"At least let me have that much say, damn it!"

Oh boy. Why didn't I see this coming? This whole having-to-depend-on-others business can't be easy for someone like Bruce. Hell, Babs has done everything she can to avoid it, but even she's had to give in on a few points. So. Do I stay, or do I go? Maybe he does just need some alone time. Give him an hour or two and he'll be fine. But, what if he's not? And how can I walk away from him, when he's like this? But that's what he's telling me to do. And one of the first things he taught me, back in the early days of vigilante school, was that making the rules was his job, and following them was mine. Maybe I should just… no. No, Bruce, I can't. Not when I can see you hurting, in a darkened room from twenty feet away. No more than you'd be able to walk away from _me_, if the situation was reversed.

I sit down on one of the couches closest to the door. I won't try to talk to him. I won't look at him. And the couch is far enough in the shadows that if he looks up, he won't have to look at _me_. But I won't leave him when he's like this. I guess you could call that a compromise.

He seems to realize that he hasn't heard the door open again. "Go away," he says. Right. Bat-rule number seventy-seven on an ever-expanding list: any attempts at a compromise that are initiated by any party other than Batman must be dismissed out of hand. "Now," he adds, and there's a hint of a snarl.

Believe it or not, I'm not planning a repeat of that reunion scene from last week. Truth is, I took a couple of stupid chances, and I think we're both lucky things worked out the way they did. If he's that insistent, then, maybe I should--

"Please."

That's it. I'm staying. Bruce waits for a minute. Then he spins the chair around, heading for the patio. "Fine!" he snaps.

I sink back against the velvet upholstery and close my eyes. They're burning anyway, and I don't want Bruce to know. He'll probably take a dim view of any emotional display on my part. I'm not going to follow him outside and chase him around the manor grounds, in any case. But, I'll be here when he comes back. Every other way inside is going to be locked--he'll have to come this way eventually.

Two minutes later, I realize that I can still hear him breathing. Correction, I can hear him cursing under his breath. In several languages. When I open my eyes and lean forward, I understand why.

The chair is parked in front of the French doors. The French doors with the security system that he designed. Standard deadbolt latch below. Good key lock at knob level… and recessed latch set six feet up. And he's staring up at that two-inch diameter brass disc, and realizing that he's trapped by his own…

…By his own defences. Figuratively _and_ literally. Cripes, he's kept people at arms-length for so long, that even when he wants to reach out he pushes them away more. I watch him shaking. I think it's from fury, or frustration. I really don't want to dwell on the other possibilities, but it's all I can do to force myself to sit there. See, even _I_ know better than to approach a person when he's feeling cornered. So, I sit. And I keep my mouth shut when he stretches his arm back and swings a fist forward to punch the… shatterproof Plexiglas. He remembers just in time to stop the blow from connecting. He's breathing hard again, and it's not from the exertion.

I sink back into the cushions.

It feels like hours pass before he speaks again.

"I _suppose _you're still there."

"Yes."

He wheels over to my couch. "I… didn't want you to see that."

"I know. I didn't watch."

He pats my hand. "Thanks."

I gently turn the hand palm-side up, and squeeze his. "Anytime."

He asks something, so softly that I have to strain to hear it. "What if he's right?"

About letting Herold die to stop Crane? Did Bane drop him on his head or something? "Wh-what?"

"Oh, not about it being acceptable to sacrifice civilians for the greater good. What if he's right about my… prognosis?"

Good thing I had all that time to think while he was swearing at the doors. I mean, he's been putting a brave face on things, but I know his rate of recovery is a little too slow for his liking, so I've sort of been planning for something like this. Because, bottom line, Bruce isn't looking for me to spout the usual platitudes about how we're all here for him, no matter what, etcetera. He already knows that. I take a deep breath. "Well," I say seriously, "in that case I think I'd have to hit the road. Go back to New York, or maybe set up shop in Bludhaven. Alfred would probably quit, too. I mean, if you can't walk, that just changes everything, doesn't it? I'm sure Tim will head out to Opal city to see if Ralph is taking on any trainees. Gordon's probably going to invite Roy to take over, here…" No, I haven't cracked. I'm waiting for Bruce to flare up again, and start defending himself. Hopefully he'll tell me in no uncertain terms not to write him off so fast just because he's in a wheelchair. At which point, I'll lean back, smile, and wait for him to hear what he just said. Of course, if this little scheme backfires…

Suddenly, there's a hand clamped firmly on my upper arm. "That's enough."

Good. I didn't want to bring Babs into it. I breathe an only slightly exaggerated sigh of relief.

"Your… ploy was effective." He actually looks sheepish as he takes his hand away. "I… shouldn't have let myself be affected to that extent."

I shake my head. "Not to any extent. Seriously, Bruce, you had me scared for bit, there." Another note to self: chess grandmasters of Bruce's level can probably detect your endgame a few moves early.

"Sorry."

Silence again, but less tense, more… companionable.

The aroma of Alfred's Tex-Mex lasagne is starting to permeate the room when Bruce nudges me. "I'm ready to head out of here if you are."

I stand up. "Did you want me to get the door?"

He nods. "The ones leading into the drawing room if you don't mind."

As we're walking past the piano, I mention that I'm surprised it's still in tune.

"Alfred takes care of that," he admits. "There've been a few social events, here, when someone has gotten the urge to play."

Oh. I don't play, myself. Not really. Never bothered to learn. Still, there is _one_ tune I used to be able to pick out… I walk over to the keyboard. Let's see… I think it starts on Middle C… right… C. C-E-G. E. E-G-B. G. G-B-D. D. D-F-A. C. C-E-G. E. E-G-B. G. G-B-D. D. D-F-A…

I miss a bar, when Bruce starts playing the other part, one octave lower. He stops, frowning.

"Again," he says.

Now, hang on just one minute. This was supposed to be fun. I didn't think it had to be perfect. What is his…

I know what his problem is. He's trying to reach out. And he's failing at it miserably, but let's just keep that our little secret, shall we?

"From the top, then," I say. This time I'm ready when he joins in. "Do you know the lyrics?"

"Don't push it." Bat-glare, Bruce voice. Nice. I laugh. And, wonder of wonders, he smiles, as we somehow keep hitting all the right notes…

_Heart and Soul_

_La-da-da-dee-da-da_

_Lost control_

_La-di-dee-dee-dee-da_

_Da-da_

_La-da-da-dee-dee-da_

_La-dee-dee-dee-dee-da-da-da…_


End file.
